


Sunday Matinee

by hogwartswitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Academy Awards, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Break Up, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fights, Fluff and Angst, HIV/AIDS, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John is a dick, Johnlock Roulette, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Making Up, Mary is Not Nice, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Movie Reference, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, The author is kind of evil, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/pseuds/hogwartswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1984 and it's a great time for movies and movie fans. John Watson is a struggling film school student with dreams of being a screenwriter. It's a dream come true when his friend, Mike, gets him a job reviewing movies for the university paper.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is also a film school student with dreams of directing, but he's also struggling to get his life back on track. The job at Baker Cinema is supposed to help him do just that, but it's SO BORING.</p><p>Until, that is, a young movie reviewer buys a ticket to Footloose and Sherlock's life suddenly becomes very, very complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Footloose, 1984

**_Friday_ **

"Right, here you go, John. Welcome to your new office."

 

John Watson, arms weighted down with his bag, shook back his slightly-too-long hair and smiled crookedly at Mike Stamford. "Thanks, Mike."

 

He set his bag, filled with his textbooks and notes, at the foot of his new desk. The small desk was one of many in a row at the university's newspaper office; it was now pristine, with only a typewriter. In contrast, the papers towered haphazardly on the surrounding desks, coffee cups and ashtrays filled with still-smoking cigarette butts sprouted from any clear spot, and John shuddered to imagine what else might lurk beneath the detritus. It was late in the day and almost everyone had left, but John could hear a few typewriters clacking in another part of the building. He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, sighing in satisfaction.

  
"Yes, this will be very nice, indeed. I appreciate you calling in the favor, Mike. This job is going to give me some good experience."

 

Mike pushed his glasses up and nodded. "No problem, John. It'll be good to see you more regularly."

 

"Yeah. Look, I'm sorry I've been a bit of a flake lately. Haven't meant to stop hanging out with everyone."

 

"No, it's okay. We understand. How's your mom?"  
  
"Overworking herself, as always. She picked up some extra shifts at the hospital. Partly to help with all the bills, but I think she's avoiding home at the moment. Too many memories of dad, and Harry's driving her crazy."

 

"Well, the offer to come out to the bar with us is always there."  
  
"Thanks, Mike. I think I'd better avoid alcohol for a while."

 

"You still working the diner job?"  
  
"Definitely. My scholarships help, but they don't cover everything. Anything extra goes to help my mom with the bills."  
  
"That's rough."  
  
John shrugs, trying to act like it doesn't bother him. "You do what you have to. At least this job will let me go to the movies again."

 

"When will you have time, with your other job and classes?"

 

"I thought I'd start going to Sunday matinee. That's one of the few times I'm not busy with anything."

 

"Busy life."

 

John pushes a hand through his hair. "Better than the alternative. Home is... not really where I want to be right now, either."

 

Mike rocked back on his feet and smiled, sympathy in his eyes. "Well. I've got a game to cover tonight. I'm here if you need anything, though. Here's your key, lock up when you go?"

 

"Thanks, Mike. I appreciate it." John took the proffered key and waved Mike away, relieved to be left alone with his own thoughts.

 

He sat down in front of the typewriter and closed his eyes, savoring the rare moment alone. Quiet spots were scarce currently; home was a battleground between his mother and Harry and his days alternated between that and the hustle and bustle of school and work. _One day it will all be worth it_ , he thought. One day he'd be able to spend his time writing movies, instead of just studying and watching them. In the meantime, he couldn't think of anything more enjoyable than being able to go to see a movie and then tell the world - or at least his college campus - what he thought about it.

 

John fished the local paper out of his bag and opened to the movie section. He had chosen the Baker as his cinema of choice. Normally he went to one closer to his home, but the Baker was near campus and his job at Hudson's Diner. His eyes roamed over the list of movies premiering this weekend, pausing briefly on _Lassiter_ , then finally resting on **_Footloose_**. _Perfect_ , he thought.

 

"Well, hi there." A woman's voice broke through John's thoughts. He swung around in his chair and found a woman around his age, maybe a couple of years older, leaning against the wall near his desk. Her honey blonde hair was twisted up in a messy bun and black-rimmed cat eye glasses perched atop her slim nose, framing twinkling blue eyes. She wore red lipstick and smiled a toothy grin at John. "You must be the new guy."

 

"H-hi!" John stammered, trying to straighten up from his chair and extend his hand at the same time. "Yeah, new movie reviewer for the entertainment section. John Watson."

 

The blonde smirked and took John's hand. "I'm Mary. Mary Morstan. Gossip and advice."

 

Her eyes roved from John's face down the length of his body. A flush crept up John's neck and he looked down, unsure of how to respond. It had been far too long since he'd given anyone the opportunity to look at him like that. Not since high school and.... _No._ He shut down that train of thought. _Don't go there._

 

Flattering as it was to receive that kind of attention, John felt the need to shut things down. He wasn't ready to answer the difficult questions that surfaced last year. John withdrew his hand from Mary's and gave her a quick smile. "Nice to meet you, but I'm running late for my evening job, so I'm on my way out."

 

Mary drew her lips into a pouting expression, "All right. I guess if you have to go.... I'm sure I'll see you around, sweetie." The smirk returned and, after one last, lingering glance at John, she disappeared around the corner.

 

 _What a relief._ John gathered his bag and checked his watch; it hadn't been a lie about needing to leave for his diner job. In fifteen minutes, he'd officially be late. _Back to the grindstone._

 

***

 

"Bored."

 

"If you're so bored, why don't you make yourself useful? You could clean auditorium five for me."

 

"Boring."

 

"Remind me why you work here again?"

 

Sherlock Holmes, draped over the concession counter of Baker Cinema, peered up through his raven black curls at his one and only friend, Greg Lestrade. "You know the answer to that question."

 

Greg leaned against the big broom they used to clear out the trash left by moviegoers. "I _do_ know the answer. Which is why I wonder why you aren't more grateful for the work?"  
  
Sherlock snorted in answer and stood up reluctantly, smoothing the wrinkles out of the white shirt and black trousers the cinema required him to wear. "I took this job because I need it, not because it is intellectually stimulating. Pardon me if I find it mind-numbingly boring not to use my greatest tool."

 

"I can think of something else that's a great big tool." Greg muttered under his breath.

 

"Fine, give me the broom."  
  
"No, no. Wouldn't want you to hurt your brain. I'll go do it myself."

 

"Whatever you wish."

"Oh, balls. Don't go into one of your sulks. Let's just get through another night, yeah?"

 

Sherlock heaved a great sigh and nodded. "I've got some homework I really need to concentrate on and it's about an hour before the evening rush should start. You mind if I hole up in the break room and see what idiots my professors are this time?"

 

"Go for it, mate."

 

Sherlock slid through the break room door, but left it open a crack, watching as Greg traipsed towards auditorium five with his broom. As soon as his back disappeared through the door, a catlike smile stretched across Sherlock's face. "Finally."

 

Propping the door to the alley outside the break room open with a box, Sherlock fished the carton of cigarettes out of his pockets and lit one, savoring the smoke burning its way to his lungs. "God, yes." He moaned, sucking in the first taste of nicotine he'd been able to sneak all day.

 

The smoking habit had started soon after Sherlock entered rehab. Everyone else smoked and it gave his nervous fingers something to do. The smoke clouded his racing thoughts, calmed them when they became too loud and drowned out the loudest ones that told him what a loser he was. _That sounds like Mycroft._ He thought, bitterly.

 

Greg was there for it all. He watched Sherlock circle the drain while he was with Victor; watched his lifelong friend become unrecognizable. If he'd been allowed to visit in rehab, Sherlock was sure he would have come. Loyal to a fault, even when his best friend's an asshole. He even got Sherlock this job. Not that Sherlock was yearning to work at something as menial as a movie theater, but it was better than some of his other options. At least this one had the added perk of being able to watch as many movies as he wanted. _I'll need that._ He thought. _Have to study up on how all the best directors do it._

 

The work was necessary, though. _Can't pay for a film degree with nothing._ Sherlock thought, his whole face twisting up in bitterness as his family came to the forefront of his thoughts. They might have forgiven the drugs. But they certainly couldn't forgive the other thing. Families of their stature just don't do that sort of thing. Might cause a scandal.

 

Financial aid helped with his costs. And despite the rehab, Sherlock's brilliant intelligence had actually earned him a few small scholarships that hadn't seemed to notice the gap in his extracurricular activities on his applications. But it still didn't stretch far enough, thus the reason for the theater job. _Could be worse._ Sherlock repeated to himself.

 

He finished the last of the cigarette and popped a stick of mint gum into his mouth. He doubted that actually fooled Greg, but his friend was nice enough to occasionally look the other way. Sherlock slipped back into the theater and closed the break room door.

Sherlock sat down just in time; Greg popped his prematurely graying head into the break room "You almost done with that homework? I could use some help getting the concessions prepped for the night."  
  
"Sure." Sherlock closed the book he had just opened. "Be right there."

 

***

 

Friday night shifts at Hudson's always seemed to stretch on forever. John finished wiping down the four-top that had most recently been occupied by two harried parents and not one, but two, screaming children.

 

"I think you've got ketchup in your hair."  
  
John glanced up to find Molly balancing a tray of dirty dishes on her hip and trying not to laugh at him. His hand went to his hair, which did, indeed, have ketchup in it. "Gee, thanks. That must've been a gift from that last group."  
  
"Those kids were terrors!" Molly shifted the tray of dishes a little higher on her hip. "Glad it was you, not me."

 

"Your sympathy is astounding, Hooper."

 

Molly stuck her tongue out, then swept into the kitchen. John could hear the cook, Anderson, complaining about her slowness. _Typical._ He thought.

 

The pre-dinner lull gave them both a chance to catch up and in half an hour, Molly and John were both behind the counter, waiting for the rush to start again.

 

"So I was wondering." Molly said, hesitantly.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Well. I have tickets to a concert this weekend and I thought. Well, it might be a silly thought, but maybe you'd like to go?"

 

John felt the blush return to creep up his neck again. "Oh! Er...."

 

"I knew it was silly. It's okay... nevermind!" Molly covered her face - blushing just as brightly as John's - with her hands.

 

"It's not silly, Hooper." John shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "It's just... I don't really know where I'm at these days."

 

Molly uncovered her face, but still looked mortified. "What do you mean?"

 

John sighed. They'd worked evenings together for almost a year, but he didn't share many details of his life pre-college with anyone. "It's difficult for me to talk about it, but I had a complicated relationship right after high school, before I started college. It didn't end well and I'm still not sure how I feel about dating in general. So I just don't do it."

 

"Oh."

 

"Look, I'm sorry. You're a good friend and you just deserve someone who knows which way his head's turned."

 

"No, it's okay, John. Really. I get it." Molly bit her lip. "You could... come anyway? As a friend, only? Promise."

 

John's mouth quirked into a half grin. "That _would_ be fun. But I've got a mountain of homework. And I've officially started at the paper! I've got to go see a movie to review this weekend."

 

"Oh, John! That's fantastic news! I mean... I wish you could come with me instead, but I know you really wanted to get on at the paper."  
  
"Thanks. I think it'll look really good later on, when I'm trying to sell my screenplays, if I've got that experience. But I promise, next time I have a free day, we'll do something. As friends."

 

Molly nodded, returning to her former cheer. The bell dinged as the front door opened. The dinner rush had officially begun.

 

***

 

The last of the Friday night cinema-goers trudged out the door, trailing half-empty popcorn bags and carrying sleeping children on their shoulders. Greg brandished his broom while Sherlock made sure everything in the projection room was properly put away. The hum of vacuums provided the soundtrack to their evening as the other cleaners worked at wiping away the dust of the day.

 

"I was thinking about grabbing a sandwich at the diner on the way home." Greg called into the projection room. "Wanna come? We could take it to my place to eat."  
  
"Will Sally be there?" Sherlock asked, a note of derision creeping into his voice.

 

"She _is_ my roommate."

 

"Pass."

 

"You two used to be friends, too. You remember that?"

 

"Keyword: 'used to'."

 

"You were in the wrong, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock stayed silent, brooding.

 

"Fine. No sandwich, no my place. I thought this whole 'journey' of yours involved forgiving people?"

 

"I skipped that step."

 

"Obviously."

 

Greg let the matter drop and left Sherlock to his brooding. In an hour they had finished cleaning and putting everything away. All Baker Cinema employees trudged out, calling farewells back and forth to each other, locking doors, fishing for car keys.

 

"See you tomorrow?" Greg asked, climbing on his moped.

 

"Unfortunately."

 

Greg grinned. "See you, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock nodded and waved, ducking under his black Belstaff coat - a gift from his father after a business trip to London, and one of the few belongings Sherlock escaped with when he fled home. He stepped back into the shadows and walked slowly down the sidewalk, turning his head to check if the last of his co-workers were gone. When he was sure of his solitude, Sherlock quickened his pace and ducked into the alley beside the theater building. He fished out his work key and unlocked the break room door. The cinema, now empty and dark, echoed with his footsteps as he made his way to the storage room and descended the stairs. Behind a shelf of long-forgotten boxes was where Sherlock Holmes called his home. A sleeping bag rolled up in the corner rested on a pillow. A bag nearby held a few clothes, even fewer toiletries. In another corner, a box with non-perishable food from the grocery store shared space with a small stack of library and school books. A cardboard box functioned as a makeshift table to hold a small desk lamp.

"Home, sweet home," whispered Sherlock. His eyes burned, but he wasn't sure if it was anger or sadness he was feeling. Or both.

 

He missed his bed. His bookshelves. The fireplace in his room that the maid would light on rainy days. His overstuffed chair. His desk with its bottles of ink, old-fashioned pens with nibs, and stacks of thick, creamy paper with deckle edges. Sherlock missed being warm and dry and well-fed. He _didn't_ miss being loved, because he had never felt that at home, but he missed feeling comfortable. _I lost it all._ He thought. _Or threw it away, if you ask father._

 

Sherlock shook his head, causing a riot of curls to dance in the moonlight coming through the high window of the storage room. He banished the thoughts of family and home to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind and instead concentrated on getting his "room" set up. He unrolled his sleeping bag, fluffed his pillow, and turned on the lamp. He shed his work uniform and slipped into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Tomorrow was his day off before he took the Sunday matinee shift. He would slip out before the Saturday morning crew arrived and take his uniform and other clothes to a nearby laundromat. In the meantime, he had a paper due on film theory, so he settled himself on the sleeping bag with his notes and his dinner - cheese crackers and a box of raisins - and prepared to study away another long night.

 

***

 

**_Sunday_ **

 

"One for _Footloose_ , please."

 

The stocky man running the ticket booth was obviously younger than his graying hair would suggest. He smiled at John as he tore off his ticket. "Great choice! Enjoy your movie."

 

"Thanks!" John was in a good mood. He'd managed to leave the house before either his mother or his sister had wakened, which always left him in a better mood than if he'd left during the middle of their usual morning argument. Going to the movies also improved an already positive mood. The movie theater was John's safe place; his home. He could not remember a time when he did not feel like it was a refuge, even when family life wasn't as stormy as it was now. It was the one place he could go and turn off his thoughts for two hours and just let other people's stories wash over him.

 

John sprung for a small popcorn at the concession stand, then headed towards his auditorium. Evidently, the Sunday matinee was the least popular showing, because the theater was empty, save for John. This caused his smile to spread even wider. "A private showing!" He crowed to himself.

 

John settled into a seat near the front - his favorite spot - and munched on popcorn.

 

The lights dimmed. The previews played.

 

Soon he was engrossed in the story of Ren McCormack and his battle against Bomont. John tapped his feet in time to the music and leaned forward, absorbing the story.

 

A guitar riff played... _Been working so hard...I'm punching my card..Eight hours for what...Oh, tell me what I got._

 

John closed his eyes and moved his shoulders to the beat. The song was catchy and he felt the joy of it in his chest, a feeling he had grown unaccustomed to feeling.

 

_I've got this feeling...That times are holding me down...I'll hit the ceiling...Or else I'll tear up this town._

 

John slipped out of his seat, the temptation too great to resist. The light from the projection room flickered across his body. John danced, his feet moving, his fingers snapping. He kept his eyes closed and let a true smile spread across his face as he made a fool of himself in an empty theater.

 

_Now I gotta cut loose, footloose...kick off your Sunday shoes...Please, Louise, pull me off of my knees..Jack, get back, come on before we crack...Lose your blues, everybody cut footloose._

 

***

 

Sherlock had watched _Footloose_ at least three times this weekend. It's not that he liked the movie overly much, but he hid in the projection room when he wasn't required at the concession stand or the ticket booth. He brought his books in with him to study, so he now associated his Introduction to Filmmaking notes with Kenny Loggins.

 

Now he had his feet propped up on the table near the projector and he leaned back in his chair, taking a break from studying. The auditorium was empty, save for one man. Sherlock thought it was a waste to show a movie for one person, but it made no difference to him if the theater owners didn't care. The movie's title track was coming up soon and Sherlock braced himself for the opening riff. The song would go through his head for weeks if he kept watching the movie.

 

As the first lyrics to the song started, Sherlock noticed the man down in the theater. He was sitting up front and having a grand time -- dancing and wiggling in his seat. Sherlock smirked. Then the man got to his feet and started dancing - bobbing and jerking to the music, feet and arms going every which way. The light from the projector washed over him and Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat.

 

The man had sun-gold hair in need of a trim. The projector light made it gleam as it illuminated his face. His eyes were closed and a blissful smile spread across his face. Wrinkles around his eyes indicated he smiled often.

 

Sherlock approached the window looking out over the auditorium, being careful to not cross in front of the camera. He looked silently down upon the dancing man who looked ridiculous.

 

His chest felt tight, like he had just smoked an entire pack of his cigarettes. Sherlock felt a flush of heat radiate over his body. He could barely hear the sound of the movie over his heart's thrumming... _ba-dum..ba-dum...ba-dum_. His fingers twitched at his side, begging him to run them through the man's silken hair. His nerves jittered inside, wanting desperately to join the manic movements taking place below.

 

All too soon, the music was over. The man rested his hands on his knees and laughed at himself, then sat down to watch the rest of the movie.

 

Sherlock, hands shaking, sat down as well and covered his mouth. Hot tears threatened to roll down his cheeks as he felt something he couldn't describe. Lust? Longing? Even Victor hadn't made Sherlock feel this much. Who was this stranger and why did he make Sherlock feel as though he'd just run a marathon in 100 degree weather?

 

***

 

The credits rolled and John stood up, already planning how to start his movie review. He crumpled and tossed his popcorn bag into the trash. As he left the auditorium, he collided with another person.

 

"Oooof!" He groaned, stumbling back a step. "S-sorry!"

 

The gawky man he'd run into looked back at him with wide eyes the color of the sky on a perfect day. A mess of black curls flopped over his forehead and framed high, sharp cheekbones. His face was odd - eyes tilted and a bit too close, slim nose, slightly upturned, too-wide lips. It was as though someone had taken a bunch of spare features and mixed them together, resulting in something John didn't think he'd ever seen before.

 

It was as though an electric current sparked between them. John reached out to steady the man, then stopped himself when a look of fear flitted into those blue eyes.

"Sorry about that." John said, softly. "I should have looked before I opened the door."

 

"S'okay." The other man mumbled, a tinge of pink coloring his cheekbones.

 

"That was a great movie, have you seen it?" John tried to put the man at ease.

 

"Y-yes. A few times.... I... I like the soundtrack."

 

John grinned. "Me, too. I'm John, by the way. What's your name?"

 

The man muttered something, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

"Sorry, didn't catch that?" John tried to catch the man's eyes again, tried to feel that electric pulse one more time.

 

"Sherlock. I...uh... I just need to clean the auditorium."

 

 _Weird name for a weird face._ John thought. "Right! Sure... I'll get out of your way. It's nice to meet you, Sherlock. Maybe I'll see you again - I like to go to the movies on Sundays."

 

Sherlock nodded nervously, then slipped past John and into the auditorium. A shiver crept up John's spine as Sherlock almost, but not quite, brushed against his clothes. He stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths and willing his heart to stop racing. John bit his lip and imagined touching those coal-colored curls, imagined cupping that sharp face, imagined softening those edges.

 

John sucked in a breath and tilted his chin up, squaring his shoulders. _Not again. You promised yourself._

 

Sighing deeply, John forced his thoughts back to his movie review and walked purposefully out of the theater and towards the bus stop to head home to get ready for his evening shift at Hudson's.

 

***

 

 

 

>                        **Review:** _Footloose_ by John H. Watson
> 
>  
> 
>            In this lively musical, city kid Ren McCormack attempts
> 
>            to adapt to life in a conservative Midwestern town
> 
>            where dancing and rock & roll music is banned. He ends
> 
>            up leading a rebellion against the townspeople to
> 
>            restore their right to dance.
> 
>  
> 
>            While the set-up for this movie may seem ridiculous,
> 
>            this reviewer found the film delightful and refreshing.
> 
>            Clearly aimed at an adolescent crowd, I believe the
> 
>            filmmakers have hit their target perfectly and
> 
>            created a movie that all young adults should enjoy.
> 
>            _Footloose_ may not be a masterpiece to last the ages,
> 
>            but it's got a good beat and I can dance to it.
> 
>                                            **Rating:** 4.5 out of 5


	2. Splash & Children of the Corn, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a small glimpse into both John and Sherlock's past (and present), a friendship begins, and Sherlock meets the sandwich from hell.

A sea of people flowed around John as he fought through his fellow students on his way to Screenwriting Fundamentals. His mind, however, was elsewhere. The dialogue he'd written the previous night for the script he was working on ran over and over in his head. The job at the paper was proving helpful at sparking his creativity and an idea for a screenplay had finally come to fruition. The hours that he didn't spend working he spent in front of a typewriter, clacking out a story he could practically see on the movie screen in his mind.

 

A shock of black hair sticking out above the crowd several feet in front of John interrupted his thoughts and drew his attention. _Hey,_ he thought. _That's not--?_

 

John sped up, shouldering several people out of the way and eliciting a few rude exclamations. As he drew closer, he caught a glimpse of alabaster skin. _It is Sherlock!_

 

Sherlock, bag weighed down with books slung over one shoulder, walked with hunched shoulders and bowed head. As the crowds bumped past him, he seemed to actually grow smaller, as though what he would most like to do is become invisible to everyone around him. At the same time, his steady gait didn't slow once as he sidestepped and dodged his way through towards his destination.

 

"Sherlock!" John called, breath puffing out. "Wait up!"

 

Sherlock's back stiffened and he stopped, turning slightly, at the sound of his name.

 

"Hey!" John pulled up at Sherlock's side. "I didn't know you went here! It's John... I go to Baker Cinema every Sunday?"

 

Looking a bit like a deer in the headlights, Sherlock nodded and bit his lip, not saying anything.

 

John nudged him lightly with his shoulder. "Oh, come on. You've seen me enough times, surely we can be friendly outside of the movies?"

 

A flush of color stained his porcelain cheekbones, but Sherlock allowed the ghost of a smile to curl at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not exactly known for being friendly."

 

"Well, I am." John said. He wasn't sure what about this strange man made him want to be befriend him, but he felt drawn to Sherlock. "And I think I see you more often than I see my old friends these days. I don't get out much beyond seeing movies."

 

"Why don't you bring your friends with you to the movies?"

 

"Ah, well. They have other interests, I think. And it's technically work. I write movie reviews for the university paper."

 

"That's you?" Sherlock dug deeply into his bag, his hand emerging clutching a wrinkled edition of the paper. "I read them every week! They're really good... I usually agree with them."

 

John puffed his chest in pride. "Thanks! It's my second job, but I need the experience. I'm going to write movies one day - the best ones!" He laughed at his own arrogance. "Well, I suppose everyone going here feels like that."

 

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off of John's lips while they moved. John felt the same electricity as he'd felt the first time they'd met. He had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to cup Sherlock's cheek, run his fingers through those curls. He wondered what Sherlock's neck would smell like, if he buried his face in the crook of it.

 

 _Easy, Johnny._ He sucked in air through his nose and gave himself a mental shake. _You know where this leads._

 

"So... what class are you headed for?"

 

"Oh..errr... I've got Film Structure in 15 minutes. "

 

"Ah, that's in the opposite direction I'm going. Too bad." John tried, but failed, to keep disappointment from settling in his chest, like a discontent cat who wanted to be fed. "And I should probably get going. I guess I'll see you Sunday as usual?"

 

John thought he was probably imagining the disappointment he saw in Sherlock's eyes. "Right. Yes. I'll see you Sunday, then."

 

Sherlock darted one last glance at John and tried out a hesitant smile before adjusting his bag and gliding away in that same, steady gait.

 

"Sherlock." John whispered, enjoying the silky way the name brushed over his lips to escape his mouth. "You are going to be very tough for me to stay away."

 

He closed his eyes and remembered the pain and disappointment on his mother's face, the anger in his father's eyes, when he told them about James and what had happened. _I can't do that again. Especially with dad gone._ His mother wasn't strong enough right now for John to bring trouble into their lives.

 

But a voice whispered in the back of his head: _It's different now. You're older. It's different._

 

"Shut up, idiot." John growled to himself. He checked his watch and swore. Late, and his classroom was still across campus. No more time to figure out his confusion of feelings, John shoved Sherlock to the back of his mind and took off in a sprint.

 

***

 

Sherlock was restless. He laid on his sleeping bag and stared out the storage room window at the stars twinkling in the sky. The hush of the empty theater hovered above his head, each creak and groan of the building reminding Sherlock that he was completely alone. In his whirl of thoughts, his brother's face emerged, angry.

 

_"I hope you realize what disgrace you've brought to this family, Sherlock!" Mycroft's small eyes squeezed even smaller, bright daggers of anger aimed directly at his brother._

_"Disgrace? What do you think we are, Mycroft? Royalty? How is this disgrace? How is love disgrace?" Hot tears scorched Sherlock's cheek. His face still burned where his father had slapped him._

_"Love? You call this perversion love? As if you'd even know what love was in your current state!"_

_"Fuck off, Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice grew shriller. Mycroft was wrong about his current state; he wasn't high. In fact, if he didn't get another hit of cocaine, he might go mad. His whole body felt jittery and empty. He needed drugs and he needed Victor. Always Victor._

_Mycroft's lips thinned to an almost invisible line. "You will get clean, Sherlock. For mother and father. You will get rid of that boy." Poison practically dripped from Mycroft's tongue as he spit the word "boy" out. "And you will get rid of any silly ideas about film school. You will follow father's path and become a lawyer. So help me, Sherlock Holmes, you will do these things."_

_"What are you going to do to make me?" Sherlock hissed, jutting his chin at his brother._

Sherlock shuddered to remember the days he was kept shut in his room, deprived of the drug he had craved more than life itself. He had paced the perimeter of that room more times than he could count, had destroyed most of his possessions in a fit of rage at his imprisonment. He screamed his throat raw when he heard Victor trying to talk his way in. After a week, Sherlock knew he would die either way without Victor in his life, so he agreed to the rehab center.

 

At Promises, his head had cleared. Unwillingly, at first, and then the haze over the world had lifted and Sherlock saw the truth of things. It was there he made plans for after. He made a compromise with himself - no more Victor. With Victor came drugs. But his parent's and Mycroft's path wasn't right, either. He could play the game while he was at rehab, but after....

 

 _And now I'm here._ Sherlock thought. _Here isn't so bad._

 

Sherlock banished his brother's face from his thoughts and rolled to his side, closing his eyes and trying to summon up happier memories. Unbidden, a cheerful face swam forward, framed in sandy-gold hair. Twinkly blue eyes winked at him like the stars. _John_.

 

Sherlock knew this feeling well and nothing good could come of it. _Remember Victor. Remember your goal. Neither Victor or John will help you reach your goal._

 

As the night ticked on, Sherlock's whirring mind finally slowed. Sleep took over and he fell into dreams of a golden-haired boy running in a field of flowers. Sherlock slept, a smile once again curving his lips.

 

***

 

"Johnny! Can I borrow ten bucks? There's this rad party at the club tonight, but I don't have the entrance fee." Harry, for once not reeking of alcohol, blocked John from leaving the kitchen.

 

"I'm not your bank, Harry. Why don't you try working for a change? There's a few places by Hudson's that are hiring."

 

"And be a nerd like you?" Harry snapped her gum and shook her head, setting her blond curls dancing. "I don't think so!"

 

"Well you aren't getting it from me. I'm not going to pay for you to get falling-down drunk." John tried to maneuver past his sister, only to be blocked by her lithe frame once more.

 

"Oh, c'mon, Johnny... I'm your baby sister!" Harry reached out to try to tickle John.

 

"Don't, Harry!" John snapped. "It's time for my 'baby sister' to grow up and help out around here!"

 

"What's going on here?" Rose Watson, wearing a nurse's uniform that sagged on a small frame made smaller by grief, came in the back door and draped her purse on a kitchen chair. "Are you two fighting again?"

 

John looked his mother up and down, worried about the bags under her eyes and the general air of exhaustion she constantly projected. "Sorry, mom. It's nothing...nothing important." He shot a meaningful look at Harry.

 

Harry rolled her eyes, snapped her gum once more, then shrugged. "Yeah, nothing, ma. I'm headed out... later!"

 

Before anyone could respond, Harry swept out the door, taking her chaos with her.

 

"I wish you wouldn't fight with her, John." Rose sat down at the kitchen table and eased her feet out of her nurse's shoes, wincing and rubbing at her tired calves.

 

"I'm trying, mom. I just wish she'd grow up a little."

"Me, too, Johnny boy." Rose smiled up at him. "I wish I could figure out how to reach her."

 

John shifted uncomfortably like he always did when things got serious with his mom. "Anyway... I... uh... was actually just leaving. My shift at Hudson's starts in an hour and I've got to catch the bus."

 

Rose tried to hide her disappointment at being left alone - again - for the evening. "Okay, John. You have a good night at work, then. Don't work too hard, though."

 

Leaning down to hug his mother tightly, John whispered "I won't. Love you, mom."

 

"I love you, too, sweet boy."

 

***

 

"Order up!"

 

"Behind you!"

 

"Ooof, sorry, John!"

 

"Can we get some extra napkins over on table five?"

 

"Lady on six says she ordered this with dressing on the side."

 

"Four and six need water refills."

 

"Order up!"

 

"Order up!"

 

"Order up!"

 

John turned the key and locked up Hudson's diner for the night, sighing in relief.

 

"Crazy night, huh?" Molly had set her purse by her feet and was pulling her hair back in a ponytail. "At least the tips made up for it a little."

 

"Yeah," laughed John. "I thought Anderson was going to spontaneously combust if he worked any faster."

 

Molly's laughter echoed out into the night. "Pretty unusual for him to work that fast!"

 

John grinned, happy that he and Molly had returned to their normal, uncomplicated friendship after Molly's aborted attempt at asking him on a date. "You taking the bus, too?"  
  
"Yep, want to walk with me?"

 

John and Molly strolled towards the bus stop. "So what movie are you seeing this weekend?" Molly asked.

 

"Can't decide between Splash or Children of the Corn."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "Children of the Corn? Ugh... I don't like Stephen King. He's too gruesome."

 

"Sometimes I'm in the mood for gruesome!" John protested.

 

"Boys." Molly rolled her eyes.

 

"And what are you up to this weekend, then?"  
  
"I've got a date, actually." Molly smiled shyly. "I hit it off with a guy who came to the diner the other night. He asked me to dinner."  
  
"That's great, Molly!"

 

"You mean it?"

 

"Of course! I mean, as long as he treats you well. If not, he'll have me to answer to." John held up a fist and smacked it into his open hand.

 

Molly laughed again and leaned into John. "What would I do without friends like you?"

 

"Dunno. It'd be a pretty sad life, though."

 

***

 

"One for Splash at 11:00...and one for Children of the Corn at 2:30. Hey, where's Sherlock?"

 

The unfamiliar boy at the ticket kiosk glanced up, obviously bored. "Huh? Uh...I don't know... who's askin'?"

 

"Never mind. " John muttered, taking his tickets and muttering something about idiots under his breath.

 

Sherlock always worked the ticket kiosk on Sunday mornings. Or at least he had for the last two weekends John had attended the movies. He craned his head until he spotted Sherlock's friend, the guy with the prematurely graying hair.

 

"Hey!" He called, jogging up to him. "Do you know where Sherlock is? I was going to say hi."

 

The man eyed him warily. "And who are you, that I should be so free with that information?"

 

"Oh, right! I forgot we haven't officially met. I'm John Watson. Sherlock goes to school the same place I do."

 

"Greg." He eyed John's outstretched hand with suspicion. "Sherlock's an old friend."

 

"Ah. In other words, you look out for him?"

 

"Intuitive, aren't you?"

 

"Sometimes. Look, I just thought Sherlock and I might have something in common, given we're both going to film school." John shrugged. "I just wanted to say hi to him and see how he's doing."

 

Greg stared stonily at John for a second, then relaxed, allowing a small smile to light his eyes. "Sherlock deserves someone to be nice to him. Another friend would probably do him some good. Afraid he's not doing very well tonight. I think he ate something a little off. He's hiding in the break room and I'm covering for him."

 

"Oh." John glanced at his tickets. He'd purposely come early in hopes of striking up another conversation with Sherlock, despite his insistence to himself that he should stay away. "I've got about half an hour until my showing...."

 

"Ah, go on." Greg nodded towards a door behind the counter. "He's in there."

 

Smiling a thank you at the friendly man, John ducked behind the counter and slipped through the break room door before anyone else could see him. The room wasn't overly large, but it was big enough for a fridge, a microwave resting on a counter below some cupboards, a small table with mismatched chairs, and a horrendously ugly plaid couch that had seen better days.

 

It was on this couch that Sherlock sprawled, cheek, pressed into the arm, looking thoroughly miserable.

 

"Uh...hi...." John suddenly found himself unable to be clever.

 

Sherlock blinked slowly up at his face, then did a double take and sat up quickly. Too quickly, evidently, for he clutched his head in one hand, stomach in the other, and groaned.

 

"Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. Greg said I could come in. Just wanted to say hi and...." John wasn't sure what should follow that "and", so he let it trail off. "Are you okay?"

 

"The bowels of hell have opened up in my stomach and I want to die." Sherlock moaned.

 

John chuckled and perched gingerly on the edge of the couch. "Greg said you ate something a bit off."

 

"Don't talk to me about that. I bonded with that sandwich. It betrayed me."

 

"You're really funny when you're not too nervous to talk to me."

 

Sherlock glared at John. "I thought you came to say hello, not torment me."

 

"You're right, I apologize." John tried to arrange his features into sympathy. He could almost imagine what Sherlock had looked like as a boy, hair constantly tousled, blue eyes so large they took up half his face. "I'll go and let you be miserable by yourself, then."

 

John got up to leave and had almost reached the door when Sherlock croaked a pathetic "No!"

 

"I mean... please don't go? This is the first time all day that I haven't thought about how sick I am for five minutes."

 

"Ah, so I'm just a distraction." John teased, but returned to the couch. "So. Why don't you join me?"

 

"Join you where?"

 

John held up the tickets. "Splash and Children of the Corn. Couldn't decide which one to see, so I'm going to both. Watch with me. Unless you've seen them already?"

 

Sherlock shook his head. "They both opened this weekend. Haven't had a chance to sit in on them."

 

"Watch them with me, then. The company would be nice and maybe they'll be good enough to distract you."

 

"Technically I'm supposed to be working...."

 

"Yes, but you aren't, are you? Would Greg cover for you?"

 

"Probably." Sherlock blew an errant curl out of his eyes. "Okay. Let's go before it gets too crowded out there and my co-workers see me slacking off."

 

 _I thought we were going to stay away from him?_ The quiet voice inside John's head whispered.

 

 _Shut up, you._ John thought, as he and Sherlock headed out of the break room.

 

***

 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" John hovered outside the bathroom stall. "I didn't know it was going to be so... graphic!"

 

Sherlock paused in his retching and groaned. "I want to die."

 

 _And it was going so well until now_. John thought.

 

It turned out that Sherlock became less awkward and nervous when in a movie theater. He and John whispered opinions back and forth while watching Splash. Sherlock even laughed several times. But then Children of the Corn started; Sherlock was fine until a bunch of the characters drank someone's blood. John watched Sherlock's face go from pale white to a sickly green and had gone into DEFCON 1 mode, rushing his new friend to the bathroom just in time for the contents of Sherlock's stomach to come out all in one go.

 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

 

"Kill me. Please, John. Make it quick."

 

"You'd regret that decision in the morning."

 

"I really wouldn't."

 

"Maybe some fresh air would help? Are you done here? We could go for a quick walk around the block."

 

In answer, the bathroom stall creaked open and Sherlock emerged, pale and shaky. His already wild hair had been mussed into an out of control state and John noticed a fleck of... well, he didn't want to think about that... at the corner of his mouth.

 

"C'mere." John guided Sherlock to the sinks and helped him splash water on his face. Sherlock gulped some deep breaths and finally nodded.

 

"Okay, I can walk. I think."

 

***

 

The air outside carried a breath of spring and the sky was a cloudless blue, almost as intense as Sherlock's eyes. He and John strolled in silence, footsteps in sync.

 

"I hope you won't think less of me after that display." Sherlock broke the silence first.

 

"Nah, I've seen worse. My sister likes to come home drunk after a night at the clubs."

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Charming."

 

"Not really. But it's her life."

 

Sherlock sneaked a glance at John's face, which was pensive and serious at the moment. "Why...."

 

"Why, what?"

 

"Why are you here?"

 

Seeing John's face take on an offended expression, Sherlock shook his head. "No. That's not what I meant. I just mean... I'm not exactly the person everyone wants to be friends with."

 

"Ah, okay. Well... something just, I don't know, clicked when we first met and I wanted to find out more about you. My brain tells me I shouldn't make time for you because I've got so much on my plate already, but my heart tells my brain to shut up. You seem like the kind of guy who could benefit from a friend."

 

Sherlock had slowed to a stop and stared intently at John, trying to decide if he should believe him. "So... you pity me?"

 

"No. No, of course I don't. But you do make me want to be kind to you; is that so bad?"

 

"You'd be the first."

 

"What about Greg?"

  
"Fine, the second."

 

"Sherlock, have you really never had someone show you kindness? What about your family?"

 

Sherlock scoffed, "Them? They can't stand me. Can't stand who I am."

 

John's eyes went soft and he stepped closer to Sherlock, resting a hand on his upper arm. "And who are you, Sherlock?"

 

For a moment, Sherlock let himself get lost in John's eyes; soft, blue pools of warm, tropical water that Sherlock could picture swimming in for hours. John licked his lips, tongue darting out quickly, and Sherlock's breath hitched, mesmerized by the sight. He felt himself leaning in, felt a yearning in his very soul - for what, he wasn't even sure of just yet.

 

"S-Sherlock?" John's interjection broke the spell and Sherlock stumbled back.

 

"Wh- sorry. Sorry. Sorry." Sherlock turned around and walked quickly back towards the theater.

 

John jogged to catch up. "Hey! Where are you going? What happened back there?"

 

"I'm sorry, John. I'm just not good at being friends with anyone."

 

John grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Wait, will you? Look, it's obvious we both feel some sort of connection with each other. Just that. Nothing more. I have... reasons... I should ignore it, but I can't. I don't want to give this up. And I don't think you want to, either."

 

Sherlock stared at John's hand on his arm, then darted his eyes, dark as a storm cloud with emotion, to John's face and shook his head slightly.

 

"Right. So... let's just be friends then. No obligations. Let's see where it goes. Yeah?"

 

Swallowing hard, Sherlock nodded. "O-okay."

 

"Which means, as friends, we can talk about whatever you want. Serious stuff. Stupid stuff. Doesn't matter. Right?"

 

"That sounds about right."

 

"Okay, then." John relaxed now, the worry of losing his chance with Sherlock fading. "I've got a couple hours before I have to go to work. Why don't we walk to the park down the block and we can talk about whatever you want."

 

"Not Children of the Corn."

 

"No, probably not that."

 

"Not sandwiches, either."

 

"Definitely not. How about your classes? What are you learning? What do you want to do, eventually?"

 

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he launched into a detailed retelling of the lecture he'd attended last week about film analysis. Together, the two men strolled down the sidewalk, one talking animatedly, the other gazing up with rapt attention.

 

Two friends. Going for a walk. In the sunshine. Life is good.

 

***

 

 

>                     **Review:** _Splash_ by John H. Watson
> 
>           
> 
>            The premise of _Splash_ seems almost ridiculous at first glance:
> 
>            Boy meets mermaid. Boy leaves mermaid in the sea. Mermaid tracks
> 
>            boy down. Boy and mermaid fall in love. It is the charm of
> 
>            the two central characters, played by Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah,
> 
>            as well as the brilliant direction of Ron Howard, that makes
> 
>            this scenario work. John Candy and Eugene Levy as comic relief
> 
>            make this movie a laugh-out-loud delight with a romantic
> 
>            twist. Perfect for a night out with whomever makes you
> 
>            happy.
> 
>                                                      **Rating:** 5 out of 5

 

 

>                 **Review:** _Children of the Corn_ by John H. Watson
> 
>  
> 
>            Full disclosure: I did not stay through to the end for this
> 
>            movie, but I feel I saw enough to render my opinion. While
> 
>            this reviewer is not adverse to a "B" horror movie ever now
> 
>            and again, this one misses its mark. While there are creepy
> 
>            moments in this film, it mostly succeeds in being boring
> 
>            with a side of gross. Special effects are, pardon the pun,
> 
>            woefully corny and when circumstances caused me to leave
> 
>            the theater, I can't say that I was disappointed to miss
> 
>            out on the ending. Avoid this one entirely, filmgoers.
> 
>                                                      **Rating:** 1 out of 5


	3. Romancing the Stone, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A villain appears on the horizon, angst ensues.

"Hi, Johnny."

 

John glanced up from typing the last of his glowing review for _Police Academy_ to find Mary Morstan leaning against the corner of his desk. She grinned cheekily at him and tapped his knuckles lightly with the pen she normally wore stuck behind an ear. "Mary! Uh... hi... how are you?"

 

He hated how a hot blush crept up his neck every time he ran into Mary. His tongue felt too big for his mouth and his words stuck fast in his throat when he tried to talk to her. _Don't be such an idiot,_ he chided himself.

 

"I've got a proposition for you." Mary purred and leaned closer to John, flirtatiously fluttering her eyelashes in his direction.

 

"Oh...um... really?" John leaned back, trying to get some space to breathe. "And what would that be?"  
  
"Well, it's almost Sunday and I know you go to the movies... and I thought it might be fun if we went together! Maybe grab something for dinner afterwards? What do you say?"

 

"I don't know, Mary...." John's thoughts immediately leapt to Sherlock. They had fallen into the habit of watching the movies John attended together. Neither had brought up the conversation had while Sherlock was sick, but their dynamic had obviously changed, become more comfortable and friendly.

 

"Oh, c'mon. It'll be fun!" Mary grinned even wider. " _Romancing the Stone_ is opening and I'm dying to see it!"

 

"Well, I guess we could...." John knew resisting wasn't going to work. Sherlock would understand...surely?

 

"Brilliant!" Mary hopped off John's desk. "I know you like the Sunday matinee. Why don't we meet for brunch an hour before that at the Daffodil? I adore their omelets." Before John could back out, Mary leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "See you Sunday, Johnny!"

 

After she'd breezed away, John sat back in his chair and tried to figure out how he'd attracted her attention. _Maybe it'll be fun,_ he mused to himself. _About time I started dating again, anyway._

 

He would have believed that, if the flash of black curls and ice blue eyes hadn't immediately leapt to his mind. _He's just a friend. He wouldn't begrudge me a date._

 

***

 

His shift at Hudson's finished, John trudged up the stairs to his room. His clothes smelled of tonight's special, the lasagna, and his feet ached more than usual. The dinner crowd had been surlier than normal, full of whining children, cranky parents, old men and women who just wanted to talk, and impatient professionals on their way home from work. He'd barely had time to say two words to Molly and the end to his day involved a yelling match with Anderson over a miscommunication about an order. Tomorrow was his date with Mary and all John wanted to do right this moment was take a shower and fall, face down, into bed.

 

Alas, the fates had other plans. Pushing his door open, John caught Harry in the middle of reaching for a box high atop his bookshelf. His eyes widened as he took in his sister's attire; she'd cut her hair - the left side buzzed close to the scalp, only a fine layer of peach fuzz left, while the right still cascaded with blond waves, tiny braids woven in here and there to contrast. She wore a ripped pink sweater that draped off her shoulders in a very _Flashdance-_ esque sort of way, and the tightest, shortest pair of shorts John had ever seen. Definitely more of his sister than he'd ever want to see.

 

"What the hell, Harry?!" He barked, causing his sister to stub her toe on his bookshelf and utter a word that his mother would be scandalized to hear.

 

"Damn it, John!" Harry plopped down on his bed and pulled her foot up to look at it. "You shouldn't come barging in like that!"

 

"Last time I checked, this was my room. What do you think you were doing?"  
  
"Oh...umm... nothing much! I wanted to borrow a book...." Harry trailed off, squinting at the bookshelf and trying to look innocent.

 

"A book. Right." John tossed his bag in the corner of his room and slipped his shoes off, practically moaning as his sore feet hit soft carpet. "Or maybe you were checking to see if I still kept my extra cash in the lockbox on the top shelf."

 

"That box? Gosh, John, I didn't even notice it!" Harry smiled and ducked her chin, playing the fool.

 

"Trick's on you. I don't keep my extra cash anywhere in this house anymore. Not with you around."

 

"That's not fair!"

 

"No, but it's true." John rubbed his temples and tried not to lose his temper completely. "Look, just get out. I've had a long day and I've got plans tomorrow. Stop being such a sleaze and cut mom and me a break, why don't you?"

 

Harry's eyes flashed. "Just because you two don't understand anything about my life doesn't mean _I'm_ a sleaze."

 

That broke the calm John was just managing to hold together. He stepped close to Harry got in her face. "Just because you're too much of a childish brat to understand that _I_ understand more about you than you think doesn't give you permission to treat your whole family like shit."

 

Harry's eyes widened and she scrambled back on the bed. "Jesus, John! Personal space."

 

"I give up, Harry. I don't know what you want. Am I supposed to constantly act scandalized by your 'edgy' choices, or what? Because you're not the only one who's been through some stuff."

 

Jaw tightening and eyes flashing, Harry slid off John's bed and stomped to the door. Before exiting, she whipped her head around and hissed, "What you went through with James wasn't anything like what I'm dealing with. At least I'm having fun and trying to find love, rather than harassing someone who doesn't want anything to do with me , like a loser."

 

She was out the door and stomping down the staircase before John could react. He stood in the middle of his room, fists clenched, chest heaving, eyes burning with unshed tears. The memories Harry had caused to surface were playing out in his mind, echoing in forgotten chambers of his memory.

 

***

 

Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight from side to side and scanning the heads that streamed past the concession booth.

 

"If you need a bathroom break, all you have to do is ask," growled Greg, who was refilling the popcorn popper.

 

"I don't. I'm just...."

 

"Looking for John. Yeah, I figured. But bouncing around like a puppy isn't going to make him come any sooner."

 

Sherlock forced himself to stop bouncing and mumbled an apology.

 

"Why are you so anxious, anyway? Don't you two have a date every Sunday?"  
  
"It's not a date!" Sherlock scowled. "He's my... friend. And I've got something to show him today."

 

Greg snorted, but didn't reply.

 

Just then, Sherlock caught a glimpse of golden hair peeking through the crowd. "Oh, there he is! Wait... is he--?"

 

***

 

"John." Mary drawled, entwining her arm in John's. "Why is that boy at the concession stand staring at us? Do we know him?"

 

John felt his heart sink. Sherlock was at the concession stand, eyes hard and focused on Mary. "Um. He's a film student, like me. I talk to him, sometimes."

 

"Hmmm." Mary lifted her chin and appraised Sherlock with shrewd eyes. "He does look familiar; I must've seen him around. He doesn't seem very pleased to see me with you."

 

A nervous laugh escaped John's throat. "I'm sure it's nothing. He's a little intense sometimes."

 

The world's most uncomfortable stare-off continued until John gave Mary's arm a little tug. "I'm stuffed from breakfast. What do you say we skip the concession stand and find our seats?"

 

Mary finally broke the stare and smiled at John. "Of course! Lead the way!"

 

She pressed her body closer to John's as they walked; John, too guilty to meet Sherlock's eyes as they passed the concession stand, stared at the floor and willed his heart back into his chest.

 

***

 

"Wow, who's she?" Greg whistled softly as John Watson swept by with a pretty blond woman by his side.

 

"I...." Sherlock swallowed. His whole body felt frozen and ice-cold. The slow drip of disappointment oozed down his spine to take up residence in his stomach. "I have no idea."

 

Greg glanced at Sherlock and furrowed his brow. "You okay? You two... you said you were just friends?"

 

"Of course we're just friends." Sherlock snapped, forcing his body to move, re-stocking the cups even though there was no need. "What else would we be?"

 

"I dunno. You've just never...."

 

"Never what? Never paraded around with a bunch of different women on my arm? That doesn't mean anything!"  
  
"Well... I mean, that was just _one_ woman, not a bunch...."

 

"You know perfectly well what I mean!" Sherlock could hear his voice growing shrill, but he couldn't seem to stop it. "John isn't even that close of a friend. He can do whatever he wants. I just... I'm surprised, that's all."

 

Greg's eyes grew soft. "Look, Sherlock... it's okay. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sure John'll tell you all about it next time you two see each other."

 

"Nothing to tell." Sherlock's words were icicles, stabbing his tongue and the roof of his mouth, bleeding out in painful shards. "I've got to go start the movie in auditorium three."

 

He could feel Greg's eyes follow him as he flounced off, but he didn't care. Why should he care about anything, when no one cared about him?

 

***

 

"This is cozy, isn't it?" Mary leaned into John, allowing him to catch a whiff of her sweet perfume. "We should do this more often!"

 

John felt torn between worrying about Sherlock and enjoying his date. Mary, it turned out, could be charming. She'd entertained him through brunch with stories of her upbringing, peppering the meal with light jokes. John found himself laughing and smiling at her bubbly personality. _This could be something_ , he'd thought.

 

But still the worry over Sherlock wouldn't leave him. _It's not like we're suddenly not friends. It was never like that. I'll talk to him later, make sure he's okay. He was probably just disappointed to miss seeing the movie._

 

John forced himself back to the present and smiled at Mary. "Today's been really nice. I'm glad you talked me into going."

 

Mary shot a quick glance over her shoulder and a satisfied smile stole across her face. She tugged at John's arm and cuddled even closer to him. That was all it took; John encircled her with his arm and pulled her close, just as the lights dimmed and the film started rolling.

 

***

 

Waves of hot and cold washed over Sherlock, up in the projection booth, as he watched John and Mary snuggle down in the theater. He would give anything to numb himself with drugs right now. Anything to make himself stop feeling... whatever it was he was feeling. He gnawed at the corner of his thumbnail, chewing it ragged and tasting blood. _Yes, make it hurt. I want to feel anything but this. Not this. Not again._

 

Faces flashed in his memory, hurtful words racing around his brain. Mycroft, his parents, Victor... they all competed to be the one who hurt him the most. And over all that: _"Let's just be friends, then. Let's see where it goes."_

 

Sherlock cursed himself for trusting anyone. When would he learn? _Just me, against the world._ As the soundtrack of _Romancing the Stone_ swelled in the theater, Sherlock swept out the door, his sadness and loneliness forming a frozen chunk of raw feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

***

 

"C'mon, Sherlock." Greg stood outside the break room door. "Have dinner with us. Get your mind off of things."

 

Sherlock glowered harder at his textbook. "Dinner with you and Sally? Tedious."

 

"You two have to bury the hatchet sometime."

 

"I know where I'd like to bury it."

 

"Be nice!"

 

Sherlock heaved a world-weary sigh and snapped his book shut. He knew this side of Greg. This side didn't understand "No". It would be easier to swallow his annoyance and go to dinner. Perhaps if he needled Sally enough, she'd storm out. _This could be fun._

 

It was Thursday night and Sherlock had steadfastly pushed all thoughts of John from his mind since Sunday. He could feel his memories fighting back, pushing hard at the door where he locked away all the things he didn't want to think about. _You can stay there forever for all I care_. Sherlock mentally snapped another lock on the door and got up from the table. "Fine, Greg. Dinner."

 

Sally met them outside. "Hey, Freak."

"Sally!" Sherlock pasted a surprised smile on his face. "I almost didn't recognize you... I guess I'm used to seeing you draped around the dirt bag of the moment!"

 

Greg grabbed the two of them by a shoulder. "Stop! Sally, _you_ promised you'd be civil. And Sherlock, you don't need to rise to the challenge. I want to take my two _friends_ to dinner at my new favorite diner, is that too much to ask."

 

Sally rolled her eyes. "Okay. Sorry. Hi, Sherlock, it's really nice to see you."

 

Sherlock, already erecting his protective wall against the outside world, nodded his chin at Sally, but kept silent.

 

"I guess that's as good as I can hope for." Greg sighed. "Look, the diner's not far - let's walk!"

 

They ambled along, Greg and Sally making small talk, Sherlock feeling like a child, shuffling along behind them. _All in all, not the best of weeks_. He mused to himself.

 

Hudson's Diner, lights blazing, loomed out of the dark, a cheerful stopover for the weary working class. A bell tinkled as they tromped through the door and into a warm atmosphere of buzzing conversation and the smell of what could only be the type of comfort food one finds in a greasy spoon diner.

 

Greg waved nonchalantly at someone across the diner and Sally poked him in the side. "That her, then?" She chided playfully and Greg nodded in return.

 

"Who? What are we talking about?" Sherlock glanced between the two of them, trying to catch up. He'd ignored the conversation entirely on the way here and now felt left behind.

 

"Greg's been coming here for more than just the food, Sherlock." Sally drawled, a teasing smile playing across her lips. She waved her hand to a brunette waitress who had just caught sight of their group and was smiling enthusiastically and waving at Greg.

 

"So we're here to check out your new love interest?" Sherlock knew he was behaving like a petulant child, but he didn't care at this point.

 

"We came for dinner. And to introduce my two friends to Molly." Greg elbowed Sherlock pointedly and gestured for him to sit at one of the vacant booths.

 

Greg and Sally sat on one side of the booth while Sherlock slumped dejectedly across from them. Molly came bustling over as soon as they sat down. "Hi, Greg! Didn't expect to see you tonight!"

 

"Molly!" Greg greeted her warmly, standing up to give her a quick hug. "I wanted you to meet my friends, Sally and Sherlock."

 

Sally shook Molly's hand, "I've heard a lot about you, Molly. Glad to finally meet you!"

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, waved weakly and slumped lower in the booth. Molly's smile faltered for a second, but she bolstered it back up and lifted her order pad. "Well, let me get you all dinner and maybe I can pop by for a chat on my break. What can I get for everyone?"

 

Orders given, Molly disappearing back to the kitchen, and the trio was left on their own again.

 

"Greg tells me you've made a new friend at work, Sherlock?" Sally grunted a little after her question as Greg kicked her shin under the table.

 

Sherlock froze, the lock in his mind rattling sharply. "He...mentioned that, did he?"

 

"Only in passing, Sherlock." Greg sounded apologetic.

 

"I think it's great." Sally said. "I think you should make friends. You can be a decent person, I know that about you. You just need to let some of us in."

 

Greg went silent, his mouth dropping open in a dumbfounded expression as his eyes swung to Sally.

 

"What?" Sally threw up her hands. "You get after me when I'm not nice to him. Now you look at me like that when I'm making an effort? What exactly do you want? I meant what I said - I _was_ friends with him, I'm sure you remember!"

 

" _He_ is still sitting here," Sherlock said, acidly. "And _he_ does not appreciate being belittled."

 

Before the argument could continue, the door jingled once more and a flustered John Watson dashed in, tucking the ends of his work shirt into his pants. He checked his watch surreptitiously, then surveyed the crowded diner. His eyes found Sherlock and he stilled.

 

Sherlock bolted up straight in the booth, the locked door in his mind burst open and flooded him with things he didn't want to see or hear. He stared at John, their eyes locked, his heart racing. With monumental effort, he tore his eyes away and slid quickly out of the booth. Ignoring the protests of Sally and Greg, he shouldered past John and out of the diner, walking at top speed towards Baker Cinema.

 

***

 

John stood stock still in the middle of the diner, watching Sherlock sweep out the door. He'd been running late for the dinner crowd and now his whole world came crashing down around him. Sherlock's friends were glancing worriedly out the diner window, Molly was gesturing at him to come help with orders, and all John wanted to do was go after Sherlock.

 

"Fuck it." He said, spinning around and bounding back out the door.

 

Sherlock must've taken off running, because he was barely a shadow in the distance. John jogged to catch up. "Sherlock!"

 

The shadow sped up and John forced himself to put on a burst of speed. The cinema came into view, its lights dimmed. Sherlock ducked down the alley and John cursed and pushed himself to go faster.

 

"Sherlock!" He careened into the alley just as Sherlock was opening the door to the theater break room. "Stop, will you? Just wait!"

 

Sherlock turned hot eyes full of hurt on him, which brought John up short. Sherlock's lips were pale and thin, his cheeks suffused with red anger. "Why did you bother following me?"

 

John panted, attempting to catch his breath while also trying to think of what to say. "You... we...."

 

Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he ran a shaking hand through his mop of dark curls. "Well, you're here now. Come in and catch your breath, at least."

 

Out of the chill of the spring night, John and Sherlock stood awkwardly near each other. "Why did you run away?" John asked after he'd caught his breath and calmed down from his frenzied chase.

 

Sherlock hugged one arm to his side with the other and laughed, turning his face away from John. "Why'd you follow?"

 

"I...don't really know. Look, what's going on, Sherlock? I thought we were friends?"

 

"Yeah." Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably. "Friends."

 

"We _are_ , aren't we?"

 

"Sure."

 

"Okay, the one-syllable answers aren't going to get us very far."

 

"Look, John." Sherlock swallowed hard again and willed the angry tears behind his eyes not to fall. "I'm not a good friend. You can ask anyone. You'd be better off walking out that door and forgetting my name."

 

John's confused expression softened into empathy. "Sherlock... you think I could actually forget you?"

 

"You seemed to forget me on Sunday."

 

"That's what this is about? You're... jealous?"

 

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock felt the panic rising in his chest.

 

John blew out a breath. "I don't really know what's going on with Mary and me. It was just a date... her idea. I had fun, but...."

 

Sherlock leaned against a wall and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the words he knew were coming.

 

"Sherlock, I had fun with her, but... she's not you. I mean... I don't know what I mean." A note of pleading crept into John's voice. "I'm confused, Sherlock. I have a hard time talking about things like this, but there are things in my past that you don't know about and it makes me question what I want. But I know one thing, I don't want to lose you as a friend."

 

"A friend." The word echoed through Sherlock's head, becoming foreign and awkward with each repetition.

 

John stepped close to Sherlock, reached up and tucked an errant curl behind his ear. "Maybe...."

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to look at John, the tears threatening to finally spill. "Maybe?" His voice strangled with the hurt that filled his whole being.

 

"Maybe... more?" John reached up hesitantly and touched Sherlock's cheek, stroking it softly. Sherlock flinched, afraid of what might be coming, but then relaxed as the hand stilled.

 

John started to withdraw his hand, but Sherlock caught it in his own, bringing the strong fingers to his lips, brushing them ever so softly in a tender kiss. John's breath hitched and Sherlock could see the desire flame in his eyes.

 

"I'm not good for you, John." Sherlock whispered huskily. "You should stick with Mary. Go be with someone safe; someone acceptable."

 

"Fuck safe." John growled and pressed up against Sherlock's body, their lips meeting in a sudden, melting moment that set off sparks of electricity in Sherlock's brain.

 

The kiss deepened, their tongues entwining, tasting each other. John shoved a hand into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock whimpered with the need that was growing inside. He cupped John's neck with one hand, twined his fingers in the fingers of John's free hand.

 

The kiss might have lasted an hour, or it might have only been a minute. When John stepped away, Sherlock slumped back, gulping for air, pulse pounding.

 

John flexed his fingers, staring at a spot just above Sherlock's head, trying to act like this was no big deal. "Uh. I'm... sorry. That... that was probably inappropriate."

 

A choked laugh burbled out of Sherlock's mouth. "Highly."

 

John focused on Sherlock, eyes serious. Then his face broke into a grin and he burst out laughing. "People would talk if they saw us."

 

Sherlock's mouth stretched into a wide, Cheshire cat grin. "People do little else."

 

"We okay?"

 

"I don't think either of us has ever been okay, John."

 

"No, you're right. But us... are we good?"

 

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's hand, examining the neat fingernails. "Are you good with Mary?" The name felt like poison on his lips.

 

"I don't know how to answer that. It was a date, nothing more."

 

"I like you, John."

 

"I know. I like you, too."  
  
"But not _that_ way."

 

"I'd say that kiss says otherwise."

 

"But you can't take me on a date, can't put your arm around me, not in front of people."

 

"Can we just see where this goes?"

 

"You're ashamed of your feelings about me."

 

John's nostrils flared and he tried to calm his racing thoughts. "Yeah. I am."

 

Sherlock looked like he had been slapped. He nodded once, then again. "Right. May I show you something?"

 

John, taken aback at the unexpected response, nodded.

 

Sherlock gripped John's hand tighter and led him to the basement door. They bumped down the dark stairs, John cracking a joke about how this was the way most horror movies started. Sherlock pulled John to the back of the room, guiding himself by feel, to his makeshift bedroom. Fumbling awkwardly, he found the plug for his lamp and pushed it into the wall socket.

 

John stood, surveying the rolled up sleeping bag, the makeshift table, the box of food. "What is this supposed to be?"

 

"It's my home." Sherlock whispered, refusing to look John in the eyes. "I live here."  
  
"Sherlock... what...." John fumbled for words, but Sherlock held up a hand to quiet him.

 

"I got into a bad crowd at the end of high school and afterwards. Drugs, mostly. Got hooked pretty quickly. Fell in love with my dealer. He was... beautiful."

 

Sherlock allowed himself one brief, brilliant memory of Victor's face, then slammed the door in his mind shut. "My family was horrified. Substance abuse was one thing, but what I felt for Victor was... unnatural."

 

Sherlock's body shivered as he let the memories leak out, giving them to John in the palm of his hands, asking for trust. "They kept me locked in my room until they could get me to rehab. After... well, after my head was clear from all that, I knew I couldn't go back to Victor. Knew his love for me wasn't real. But I also knew my family could never accept me for who I am, so I left. Called in a favor with Greg to help me get this job and...."

 

"And you stay here without anyone knowing." John finished the sentence for him.

 

Sherlock nodded. "I know you're ashamed of how you feel about me, John. And I'm showing you this because you're right to be ashamed. There is no reason for anyone to want this... to want me."

 

The tears finally spilled out, rolling freely down his cheeks. Sherlock shoved his fist in his mouth, biting hard, trying not to fall apart at the seams.

 

In an instant, John was there, arms circling around him, hands stroking his hair, his back. "No. Sherlock, no."

 

They stood there, John whispering comfort into his ears, and Sherlock cried out years of pain and hurt and loneliness. His throat burned and his head throbbed as he let everything go, face buried into the shoulder of John's work shirt.

 

When the tears finally subsided, Sherlock hiccupping softly , John led him to the rolled up sleeping bag. He kicked it open and they both sank to the floor. John stretched the length of the sleeping bag and Sherlock curled against his chest, his eyes raw from so many tears.

 

"I'm not ashamed of you, Sherlock." John twisted his fingers through Sherlock's curls, catching individual locks and sliding them through his fingers. "I'm not going to lie to you, I _am_ ashamed of how I feel... I don't know how to let go of that yet. But I'd never be ashamed of you."

 

Sherlock didn't respond, so John continued. "I had my troubles in the past, too, you know. There was a boy... a man. James. He was... glorious. We were together for a very short time and then he changed his mind. Decided what we were doing was shameful. So he made up a story that I'd forced myself on him. It wasn't true, so he wasn't able to get me in as much trouble as he'd wanted to, but... it almost got me kicked out of school. I'm just grateful it happened the last year. The principal was content to let me graduate, move on to college. James's parents transferred him after his story fell apart. But... the damage was done."

 

Sherlock looked up at John. "I won't change my mind about how I feel about you."

 

John allowed a sad smile to spread across his face. "Maybe you should."

 

"I'm not very good at doing what I should."

 

A laugh rumbled in John's chest, causing Sherlock to shiver in delight. "No, you're not. Neither am I. So where does that leave us?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"I don't, either. So... why don't we see where things go? I'll promise you right now, Sherlock. I won't see Mary anymore. Not like that. Not while we're figuring things out."

 

"We won't be able to be together out in public."

 

"I don't want to hide you away like a shameful secret, if that's what you're asking." John paused, trying to find the right words. "But... until we know what _this_ is, maybe we could just go slowly? You and I have both been hurt before. I don't want to hurt you again and I'm pretty sure you don't want to hurt me."

 

"Slowly is good."

 

"So we're friends...and then some?"

 

"Friends...and then some."

 

John smiled and settled his head back, snuggling Sherlock closer to his chest. "You've got a pretty good view out that window."

 

Sherlock turned, staring up at the night sky. "Just the stars."

 

"Just the stars! Listen to that. That's the entire universe out there, Sherlock. Stars and planets and black holes and comets...."

 

"I didn't realise I was talking to a scientist."

 

"My dad liked to look at the stars." John grinned at the memory. "He used to have a telescope in the backyard and he would show me all the constellations. Look, there...that's the North Star. And that's the Big Dipper. There's Orion's Belt."

 

John pointed out the constellations as he talked and Sherlock squinted to make out the shapes in sky. He rested his head against John's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and lost himself in that moment of pure happiness.

 

 

 

>               **Review:** _Romancing the Stone_ by John H. Watson
> 
>           
> 
>      The chemistry between Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner is impossible
> 
>      to deny. That, combined with slam-bang action that never stops to
> 
>      let the viewer catch its breath, and just a whiff of roguish comedy,
> 
>      makes _Romancing the Stone_ near-perfect in this reviewer's eyes.
> 
>      The script is witty, the direction sure-footed, and they both add
> 
>      up to more fun than one should have in a movie theater. Mark this one
> 
>      down as a must-watch.
> 
>                                                      **Rating:** 5 out of 5

 

 

 

> **_Around the Water Cooler with Miss Mary_ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **BLIND ITEM:** Two fellow students have been spotted making googly eyes at each other at a local theater. The problem? There's a slight gender imbalance. Sources tell this reporter that there's a scandalous past for one of them, as well. Better watch out, fellas. Miss Mary's watching.


	4. Firestarter, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Mary continues her reign of terror, but she may have underestimated Sherlock's deviousness.

"What do you call this?"

 

Mary, one elbow propped on her desk while she flicked through a stack of notes, glanced up to find John, face red and angry, glaring at her.

 

John smacked the latest issue of the paper on her desk, folded open to the blind item in the gossip column.

 

"Well, hi, Johnny!" Her voice perky as ever, Mary straightened in her chair and fluffed her hair with a well-manicured hand. "I thought you'd forgotten about me since I didn't hear from you after our date!"

 

"You need to explain this." John jabbed a finger at the newspaper. "Just what are you trying to do?"

 

Feigning innocence, Mary glanced briefly at the paper, then flicked her eyes back to John's livid face. She batted her lashes and pouted prettily. "Oh, Johnny, I'm just having a bit of fun."

 

"Fun?" John barked out a laugh. "You call this fun? To me it looks like bullying of the most vicious kind. What did Sherlock ever do to you? What did _I_ do to you?"

 

A shrewd light flared in Mary's eyes. "Maybe I just want our fellow students to know what kind of man you are, Johnny. What sort of... interests... you have."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

Mary bent and retrieved a file from her bottom drawer and flashed it to John. His name scrawled across the tab. "There's all sorts of interesting stories in this."

 

John felt his stomach drop and his throat dry up. He longed to snatch the file from Mary's hand and rip it to pieces. "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

She laughed. "I think you know what's inside this file, Johnny. There's all sorts of things a woman can do to find out secrets. James says 'hi', by the way."

 

 _I'm going to hit her._ John thought. _I'm going to hit a woman._ His fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to get hold of the temper raging inside him. "That still doesn't explain why."

 

"A secret this juicy? Oh, Johnny. I'd write about it for fun! But I actually do have a reason." Mary turns her eyes to a photo of herself on her desk. She is with a brown-haired man who grins at the camera as he ruffles Mary's hair. "Did I tell you, on our date, about my brother? Jimmy wants to make movies, just like you. He loves movies! I think you have a lot in common, actually. Do you know the one thing you don't have in common?"

 

Confused, John twitches his head no.

 

"Jimmy's not friends with Mike Stamford. To be honest, he doesn't have many friends - besides me, of course - because most people just don't understand how brilliant he is. _He_ doesn't have a friend who will pull strings and call in favors to get them a job. Isn't that sad?"

 

"So your brother wanted my job at the paper? And you're upset that I got it instead?"

 

"That's my boy, John! You're not as dumb as you look!"

 

"It's a job at a college newspaper, Mary! It's not exactly the most coveted job in the world!"

 

Mary leaned forward, clasping John's file to her knees. "You are absolutely right. Which is why I think you won't mind stepping down and letting my brother try out a job he _desperately_ wants."

 

Taken aback, John waits a moment to reply. "I'm not going to do that, Mary."

 

"Then I guess Miss Mary will continue to have plenty to write about. I wonder how Sherlock's professors will feel about his recreational activities? And how will yours feel about your... proclivities?"

 

John sneered, "You're foul. You really are the worst human being I've ever met."

 

Mary stared at him, silent, her merry eyes and pert mouth betraying nothing about what was going through her mind.

 

"I won't be bullied. And I won't let you bully Sherlock, either. Publish it all if you want. Neither of us have anything to be ashamed about, nor are we doing anything wrong."

 

Mary's eyes hardened to flinty diamond chips. "We'll see about that, John Watson, won't we?"

 

John turned on his heel and strode away from Mary's desk, attempting to look confident. But a ribbon of panic was threading itself through his heart and his mind was a jumble of thoughts and memories as he tried to think what to do.

 

***

 

The bell on the door of Hudson's Diner tinkled as Sherlock entered. It was early afternoon, too late for lunch, too early for dinner, so the restaurant was mostly empty. A man nursed a cup of coffee at the long bar near the front, and two young mothers sat gossiping over burgers and fries while they cradled babies in their laps.

 

Sherlock hovered near the diner's entrance, popping on his tiptoes to look for John, clutching a piece of paper in his hands.

 

"You're a friend of John's aren't you?"

 

The pretty brunette girl who worked with John approached Sherlock tentatively, a small smile playing at her lips.

 

Sherlock, nervous around people he did not know, nodded and edged a little closer to the door.

 

"John phoned and is running a little late for his shift. I'm Molly... is there anything I can help with?"

 

"Oh...um. I just wanted to show John something." Sherlock glanced at the paper in his hand.

 

"May I see?" Molly held out her hand and Sherlock, not quite sure why he was trusting this virtual stranger, handed it over.

 

Molly's eyes read the sheet quickly. "Oh! A film competition?"

 

"I've tried to show it to John for... awhile." Sherlock said softly. "I thought maybe he might like...."

 

Sherlock trailed off and stood awkwardly, not sure where to put his hands now he no longer clutched the competition advertisement.

 

"You should both enter!" Molly said, excitedly. "It's a fantastic idea!"

 

"Y-you think so?"

 

"Yes! It'd give both of you some great experience... and an excuse for you both to hang out, right?"

 

Sherlock's face grows pinker and Molly giggles. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. But you and John are good for each other, I think. It's not a bad thing!"

 

Sherlock ducked his head and smiled through the curls that flopped over his eyes. "I'm glad someone else thinks it's a good idea besides me. I hope John does, too."

 

"I'm sure he'll be completely on board. Now, why don't you come over to one of the tables and I'll bring you a milkshake, on the house!"

 

Sherlock tries to protest, but Molly grabs his wrist and drags him to a booth, firmly instructing him to sit down and wait. Soon he's enjoying a frosty chocolate shake with swirls of whipped cream. That's how John finds him when he stomps into Hudson's, eyes still alight with frustration from his conversation with Mary.

 

"Sherlock?" He stops mid-stomp as he spots the familiar dark curls. "What are you doing here?"

 

Sherlock, a dab of whipped cream on his nose, brightens instantly at the sight of his friend. "John! I came by to show you... what's wrong?"

 

He stops midsentence and cocks his head, studying John's face.

 

"It's nothing." John snaps. "I'm fine."

 

"You're not."

 

"Well... _you've_ got whipped cream on your nose."

 

This took Sherlock aback and he sat there, blinking, in surprise. John's anger finally broke as he let out a chuckle. He walked to Sherlock's booth and used his index finger to swipe the whipped cream from Sherlock's nose, popping his finger into his mouth afterwards. "Yum!"

 

Sherlock's face grew pink once more, but he laughed along with John.

 

"What'd you want to show me?" John asked, shoving hands in his pocket.

 

"You sure nothing's wrong?"

 

"I don't really want to talk about it, Sherlock."

 

A hurt look flickered across Sherlock's face, but he shook it off and pushed the competition advertisement to John. "I've meant to show this to you since... well, never mind that."

 

John scanned the flier, a smile forming as he read. "Wow, this would be a great opportunity, wouldn't it? Wouldn't say no to that prize money, either." He glances up at Sherlock. "Think we could win it?"

 

Sherlock grinned, a proper grin, which John has never seen him do. Sherlock's beauty is breathtaking in that moment and John's breath catches in his throat.

 

"I was hoping you'd like to give it a go." Sherlock is practically vibrating with excitement. "You could write it, maybe some of your friends would be willing to act. I can direct and if I can get one of the film labs at school to loan me equipment, I can film it, too. I don't know about you, but this is what I've wanted to do my whole life. Why wait to start?"

 

John couldn't resist. He covered Sherlock's hand with his own, fingers curling under his palm. "Let's do it. Can't fail unless we try, right?"

 

Sherlock, transfixed by John's hand holding his, nods silently, a look of happy contentment suffusing his face. They sat together in comfortable quiet for a few moments before John cleared his throat and withdrew his hand.

 

"Eh... I have to start my shift. I'm sorry I can't stay here longer."

 

"It's okay. It'll be time for my shift at the theater soon. John... you sure nothing's wrong?"

 

Though his anger had been overtaken by excitement, it was still there, under the surface. John scrubbed his face with one hand. "Ah... yeah. Look, we do need to talk about something, but not here."

 

"You could come by the theater after work?"

 

"That'd be okay?"

 

"Sure. I'll wait out front to let you in."

 

"Deal."

 

Plans made, they both parted, anticipating the evening to come.

 

***

 

John and Sherlock sat, facing each other, on the floor behind the concession stand. Sherlock had decided to take a risk and run one of the popcorn poppers so they'd have snacks. John popped a kernel into his mouth and waited for Sherlock to speak. He'd just told Sherlock the whole story: Mary, Mary's brother, the blind item in the gossip column, the file.

 

Sherlock blew a curl out of his eyes and leaned his head back. "So we can assume she knows everything, or at least a great deal?"

 

"Yep."

 

"Damn."

 

"Pretty much."

 

"Do you...need to stay away from me?" Sherlock looked directly at John, fear creeping into his expression.

 

"Fuck, no." The anger flared up again. "I just found you. There's no way I'm letting her bully me away from you."

 

A tiny spark of pure happiness kindled in Sherlock's heart; he gathered it in his hands and held it close, savoring this rare moment.

 

"And I'm not giving up my review job, either. I bust my ass every day at the diner for one reason and one reason only: it helps me follow my dream. I want to make movies, Sherlock. And this job at the paper gives me experience that will help me later. Besides, I don't want to stop coming to the theater every week and I couldn't afford to do that without the budget the paper gives me."

 

"So what are we going to do?"

 

"Ignore it? Let her do what she wants? What's the worst that could happen?"

 

"I don't know if you've noticed, John, but people like us don't get treated very kindly in the world. How long do you think you'll have _any_ job if she spills your secrets?"

 

"What do you mean, people like us?"

 

Sherlock stared at John, stunned silent. "Uh... I mean..." he stammered, trying to regain his equilibrium. "John... I'm gay. I assumed you knew. I don't know what label you like to go by, but given that you were just kissing me a week ago and making me weak in the knees, I thought perhaps...."

 

"I'm not gay!"

 

Sherlock's face burned, feeling shame curl up his spine. "I didn't mean to assume." He mumbled.

 

John squeezed his eyes shut, horrified at himself for his reaction. "No, Sherlock... no. I'm sorry. This isn't coming out right. You're right... I don't know what I am. I'm not gay... but I'm not straight, either. I guess I'm just having a hard time accepting it."

 

Sherlock bit his lip and stayed quiet.

 

"I didn't mean to hurt you." John whispered. "This is really difficult for me."

 

"I know it's not easy, admitting something like this." Sherlock's voice was low and tinged with hurt. "And I know I'm an easy target. But you can't toy with me how you like and then deny everything once you're confronted with the truth. I would have thought your experience with James would have taught you not to behave like that."

 

It was John's turn to feel hurt, but he knew he deserved the rebuke. "You're right. I'm being an ass."

 

"You are." Sherlock drawled, crunching a piece of popcorn between his fingers. He tossed it at John, the popcorn bouncing off John's chest and to the floor.

 

"Hey!"

 

Sherlock threw another piece of popcorn, this time bouncing it off John's nose. A smile twitched at his lips and he scrunched his nose in an attempt to hide it.

 

John laughed and tossed a small handful of popcorn at Sherlock. Within seconds, they both were throwing handfuls of popcorn scooped from the popper, a shower of buttery kernels flying in all directions. They both hooted like naughty children. The flurry of popcorn lasted only minutes before they both collapsed back on the floor, covered in white kernels and gasping for breath. John swatted Sherlock's chest. "You're going to have a mess to clean up by morning."

 

"Me? I wasn't the only one to make it!"

 

John's eyes softened as he gazed at Sherlock, lying back in a sea of crunched popcorn, several kernels stuck in his curls. "You're right. I'll help."

 

He leaned over Sherlock, bracing his hands on either side of him, and placed his lips lightly on Sherlock's nose, then each cheek, then his lips, soft kisses that felt like the brush of butterfly wings. After a startled second, Sherlock reached up and stroked John's face, staring at him with all the wonder he felt when he looked at this marvelous man.

 

"C'mon." John nudged Sherlock's leg with his knee. "Let's clean this up."

 

The moment passed; they both grabbed brooms and garbage bags. Working comfortably together, the popcorn cleaned up quickly. Sherlock started in on the popper, emptying it out and scrubbing the grease.

 

"So what _are_ we going to do?" Sherlock asked. "You be as cavalier as you want, but this is still a serious problem. And I don't want something to mess up our chances with this film competition."

 

John nodded, resting his chin on the end of his broomstick . "I don't, either. But I also don't know what to do."

 

"How much time do you think we have?"

 

"Maybe she'll stretch it out a bit? She seems to enjoy the slow torture."

 

"I may have an idea, John. But I need to talk it over with Greg."

 

"I don't know about bringing in other people on this, Sherlock."

 

"Trust me, John. Please? Besides, Greg is a trustworthy guy."

 

John sighed. "Okay. I _do_ trust you. But keep me in the loop?"

 

"Of course." Sherlock finished scrubbing out the popper. They hauled the trash bags of popcorn out to the dumpster and then stood around in the cool night air, John leaning against the wall of the alley, Sherlock stretching his arms above his head and yawning.

 

"You need to sleep." John said, prodding Sherlock's shoe with his foot.

 

"Mmmm." Sherlock mumbled. "I still need to check over the paper I'm writing."

 

"I should go, then."

 

"Probably." Sherlock looked sad.

 

"I'll be back Sunday."

"What will you see this week?"

 

"Well, I thought since I did _Sixteen Candles_ last week, I'd check out something less fluffy and go for _Firestarter_."

 

"Sounds hot." Teased Sherlock, and they both shared a laugh at the joke.

 

" _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ comes out in a couple of weeks."

 

John nodded, excitedly. "I loved the first one. I wanted to be Indiana Jones for at _least_ a month after."

 

"You'd look nice in the hat and whip."

 

John blushed bright red at the unexpected compliment. The electricity between them sparked and John wished he didn't have to go.

 

"Maybe we could see _Temple of Doom_ together?" Sherlock asked.

 

"That'd be great!"

 

"I was thinking... nothing stopping us from having a private viewing after closing. I can run the projector."

 

"You won't get into trouble?"

 

"I don't think so, no. I know the janitorial schedule by heart."

 

"That would be fantastic!"

 

After a few more farewell words, John reluctantly left for home and Sherlock returned to his empty room and his schoolbooks, a plan formulating in the back of his mind.

 

***

 

"John!" Sherlock's voice hissed in John's ear from the seat behind him in the theater. The end credits of _Firestarter_ were rolling.

 

John jumped and swore. "Jesus, Sherlock! You scared me!"

 

"Never mind that, I need to talk to you!"

 

"Okay, okay. Where?"

 

"Break room, let's go."

 

Sherlock dragged John out of the auditorium and into the break room, where he locked the door and pushed John onto the couch.

 

"Whoa, Sherlock, slow down! I need a little romance before we get to this point!" John laughed.

 

"John, get your mind out of the gutter. This is about Mary."

 

Instantly John sobered and sat up, attention focused on Sherlock. "I'm listening."

 

"So Mary's got this file. On you, on me, right?"

 

John nodded.

 

"If she no longer had the file... would it kill her story?"

 

"Well, she's a gossip columnist, so I don't know if she needs to prove herself. But our editor _is_ pretty tough on us about having facts to back up our writing."

 

"So we need to divest her of the file."

 

"Sure, easy as that, yeah?" John felt frustrated. "How do you propose we do that?"

 

"That's the brilliant part, John. You forget, _I_ am a former criminal. I just happen to have a talent for breaking into buildings. And Greg is pretty handy for running these kinds of schemes, even though he looks down his nose at me about breaking the law. He's willing to help out, in this case."

 

"You're insane! You want to break into the college newspaper office and steal Mary's file?"

 

"Steal the file, plus any copies of stories she's written about it."

 

"And if we get caught, we both get kicked out school."

 

"We won't get caught."

 

"But if we do...?"

 

"John, you said you trusted me. Let me fix this."

 

"Okay...okay!" John relented. "But I want to go with you."

 

"But--"

 

"No, Sherlock. I _am_ going with you. We're in this together."

 

Giving in, Sherlock nodded. "Fine. Greg and I are both off work next Saturday, so we'll do it then."

 

"Okay. So I've got a week to get used to the idea of being a criminal."

 

"Don't worry, it's not as hard as you'd imagine."

 

***

 

 

>                         **Review:** _Firestarter_ by John H. Watson
> 
>           
> 
>      My readers might think that I would learn my lesson about movies based
> 
>      on Stephen King novels, but I could not resist giving this movie a
> 
>      try. I was hopeful that Drew Barrymore, so brilliant in last year's _E.T._
> 
> would prove to be a true star. Sadly, _Firestarter_ is merely mediocre.
> 
>      The plot is fine, the acting is fine, but there is nothing that
> 
>      makes this movie stand out as something brilliant. While I enjoyed
> 
>      my outing at the theater this week, I feel like this is a movie that
> 
>      will be soon forgotten.   
> 
>  
> 
>                                                      **Rating:** 3 out of 5
> 
>  
> 
> **_Around the Water Cooler with Miss Mary_ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **BLIND ITEM:** Do you enjoy movies, dear readers? How about movie reviews? Miss Mar y has a juicy secret about a certain movie reviewer that might make everyone think twice before they take a night out at the cinema. What could it be? I'm not telling... yet.


	5. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom...sort of, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock commit a crime. Several of them. Which turns out to be rather arousing to both parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT...ALL THE SMUT....please note the rating change. And to those who have been waiting for this moment -- many thanks for the patience.

Spring was in full swing and the nights carried with them a promise of summer: swimming pools and hot dogs and dusty baseball diamonds. Saturday night dawns clear, stars wink merrily down at Sherlock and John as they walk to campus.  
They've both dressed in black sweatshirts and dark jeans. Both preoccupied with thoughts of the task ahead, they walk in silence.

Checking his watch for what must be the tenth time, John decided to break the silence. "Greg's meeting us there?"

Sherlock nodded." That's what he said he would do. You know, you don't have to be there. I can get in, get out... it'll be fine."

"Don't be ridiculous. This involves both of us and we both should take equal risk."

Sherlock wisely dropped the subject. "We still on for Temple of Doom tonight?"

"I thought that was next week!"

"Got an early print... technically I'm not supposed to show it, but...." Sherlock grinned saucily at John.

"You're turning into a regular rule-breaker, aren't you?" John's eyes sparkled with admiration, gazing at Sherlock in the dark.

"Probably your influence." Sherlock shrugged.

Half smirk on his face, John elbowed Sherlock. "Yeah, a late night movie will be the perfect celebration. That is, if we're not in jail."

"We aren't going to jail. I've got a source."

Confused, John opened his mouth to ask what Sherlock means, but at that moment they draw up to the newspaper building and Greg slouched from the shadows.

"Took you long enough." He grumbled, shoving a small lump towards Sherlock.

Neck craned, trying to see the package, John asked "What's that?"

Sherlock held up a leather pouch, then flipped it open to reveal a set of lock picks. "Tools of the trade, John."

"Where'd you get those?!" John gaped at Greg, who decidedly does not look like the type to carry lock picks with him.

"My dad." Greg mumbled, hunching his shoulders. "Can we get on with this?"

"What Greg does not want to tell you, John, is that his dad is a police detective. Something Greg, himself, aspires to be one day. And his dad occasionally finds himself with interesting treasures from some of his cases."

"That's brilliant! It should make tonight go smoother."

"You're sure there's no alarm on the building?" Greg asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

"Certain. I asked Mike once about it and there are just too many people who stay late and come and go at odd hours here. They rely on a security guard making the rounds."

"I'll stay here and keep a lookout for that." Greg nodded at Sherlock. "You know the signal, if I see anyone?"

"I'll listen for your whistle. John? Shall we?" Sherlock brandished one of the picks.

The lock picks make quick work of the door and soon John and Sherlock are inside. The newspaper office, normally bustling with noise, now stood completely quiet and still. Every footfall, every breath, bounced and echoed against the walls. Giving Sherlock's sleeve a tug, John pulled him to Mary's desk. From beneath his sweatshirt, Sherlock withdrew a small flashlight, switching it on.

Mary might have been cunning when it came to gossip, but it turned out she was overconfident; the drafts of her next few articles, as well as notes, the files on John, and a mini cassette labeled "Sholto, J.", were all meticulously tucked inside her drawer. Gathering it efficiently and tucking it in an empty satchel he produced from his sweatshirt - How much does he have in there?? - Sherlock took a few moments to sweep the office for anything he might have missed.

"You know you're fantastic, don't you?" John whispered, marveling at his friend's no-nonsense get-the-job-done manner.

Sherlock stopped, looked up and met John's eyes. "What?"

"You. You're fantastic. Amazing, even! You take my breath away."

Face reddening, Sherlock appeared speechless. He stared at his hands, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

Easing closer to Sherlock, John grasped Sherlock's hand and lifted his palm to his lips, kissing the soft flesh lightly. "Amazing. Brilliant. Phenomenal. Fantastic." The words are whispered into Sherlock's palm, breath tickling, causing Sherlock to laugh, his head dropping to rest on John's forehead. John giggled, dropping Sherlock's hand in favor of cupping his cheek.

The moment, so brief and magical, shattered in a millisecond when a sharp whistle sounded from the front door.

"Shit." Sherlock and John stepped apart. John could feel his heart pick up pace. "What do we do, Sherlock?"

"Let me think, let me think." Hands scraping curls off his forehead, Sherlock paced, eyes flitting while his thoughts raced for a solution. "The window!"

He pointed to the window above Mary's desk. It was medium-sized; big enough for both of them to fit through. "We've got what we came for. C'mon, John. I'll give you a boost."

John clumsily allowed Sherlock to boost him up to the window. The fates were smiling as the latch moved freely and the window popped open without a sound. Grunting, John boosted his sturdy body up over the sill, toppling into the bushes with a few whispered curses. Sherlock followed, his lithe body scrambling with much more ease than John's. He caught the edge of the window on his way out, pulling it closed as he dropped to the ground like a sleek cat.

"Bastard!" John struggled to stand, his sweatshirt caught in the branches of the bush. "You make that look easy."

Sherlock helped tug John to his feet and they sagged against the building, laughing breathlessly.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." John gasped. "You got everything, right?"

Sherlock held out the bag for John to peek inside. "I am nothing if not a ridiculous man, John. But I think this takes care of everything."

Once again their gazes held for a moment too long. The heat and electricity between them was just as strong as it had been their first time meeting. John feels a stirring below and tonight he didn't want to be ashamed about it. Grabbing both of Sherlock's hands and tugging him roughly to him, John pressed his lips firmly to Sherlock's, tongues meeting as Sherlock rushed to catch up. Deepening the kiss and pinning Sherlock's arms against the newspaper building, John took what he wanted, teasing a whimper of arousal from Sherlock's throat. He could feel the beginnings of an erection through Sherlock's jeans and hoped Sherlock could feel the same. He broke the kiss, ignoring Sherlock's protest, and moved to the delicious expanse of neck before him. Biting and sucking his way downward, he fumbled at Sherlock's zipper, prepared to take him right then and there....

"Sherlock? John?" Greg's hushed voice floated out of the shadows. "You two make it out all right?"

John stopped, letting go of Sherlock's wrists. He rested his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck for a second. "Dammit." He growled.

Sherlock could only laugh shakily.

"We're here, Greg." John called out softly, leaving one last kiss on Sherlock's collarbone. He pushed off the building and loped towards Greg, hoping his arousal wasn't visible in the darkness.

"Guard came by..." Greg was agitated. "Took a lot of convincing for him to believe I wasn't up to something. Luckily I'd thought to lock the door after you went in." He squinted up at the window they'd used as an escape route. "You climbed out of that?"

"Yeah," John laughed. "And I've got a sore ass to prove it."

Sherlock, face pale, but composure recovered, held up his bag. "Got everything. Thanks for the help, Greg."

"Not the first time I've pulled you out of the fire." Greg looked at Sherlock knowingly, years of friendship and favors conveyed in the glance.

"And once again I find myself owing you a favor."

"Don't worry. I'll collect on that. I want you and John to have dinner with Sally and me sometime soon."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Couldn't I just take one of your shifts or something?"

"Nope. I'll let you know the details later."

Exchanging goodbyes, Greg jogged off in the direction of his place and Sherlock and John were left alone once more.

John coughed softly. "So... uh... Temple of Doom?"

Sherlock's eyes were blazing with unfulfilled desire. "Is that what you want."

Licking his lips, John made a decision. "Not really. No."

"Do you want....?"

John drew closer to Sherlock, closing the gap between them. "I'm going to be plain: I want to fuck you. On every surface we can think of. I want to open you up and make you call my name."

Sherlock swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Attempting casual, he whispered, "Y-your movie review?"

"Can hang in the wind for all I care. I'll make something up. I want you, Sherlock. I've wanted you since I first laid eyes on you. And I'm tired of denying it. Aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded, overcome with the feelings overloading his brain. "Where?"

"I'd take you right here if it wouldn't result in us getting arrested for indecent exposure. C'mon... we've evaded prison so far in our life of crime. Is the theater... safe?"

Sherlock checked the time at his wrist and nodded. "Janitorial staff will have already come and gone. The night is ours."

"Let's go then. Quickly."

***

"I have an idea." Sherlock tugged at John's hand, leading him to a door marked "STAFF ONLY" inside the theater building. He led John up a short flight of stairs and into a large room dominated by a projector. Recessed overhead lights glow softly, creating a romantic ambience. Sherlock retrieved a canister of film, popping it open and threading it into the projector. "Let's kill two birds with one stone... the movie can be our background music."

"You want to have sex to Indiana Jones?" John laughed.

Sherlock cracked up, nodding. "It seems fitting."

"You know what? It does. It really does. Okay, play the movie."

Sherlock threaded the projector with film deftly, nimble fingers making quick work of the job. Soon the first strains of the Indiana Jones soundtrack drifted up to the projection room. Sherlock fiddled with a few dials, taking the volume down to a lower level than usual, so as not to alert anyone to strange goings-on at the movie theater.

John, impatient with waiting, snaked his arms around Sherlock's waist from behind and nipped his ear with his teeth. "I want those fingers around my cock, not on a dial."

Turning to face him, Sherlock trailed his fingers over John's face, tracing the contours of his jaw. He felt suddenly vulnerable. "It's... been awhile, John."

Cupping Sherlock's face with both hands, John searched his expression, liquid blue eyes roaming over every contour of his face. "It's okay. We're doing this together. If you're uncomfortable with anything, we'll stop."

"I won't want to stop." Whispered Sherlock. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Don't be afraid. I'm here." John kissed Sherlock's forehead, trailing down his face, kissing his eyelids, his cheekbones. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

Taking that as permission, John continued working downward, pushing Sherlock up against one of the walls of the projection room. His hands reached for the bottom of Sherlock's sweatshirt, pushing it up and over his head. John's sweatshirt soon followed and they meet, skin to skin. The light fuzz of golden fur on John's chest rubbed seductively on Sherlock's mostly hairless chest - only a whisper of dark hair trailing down his sternum. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, probing and stroking, John's cock straining at his jeans.

John sprinkled kisses along Sherlock's shoulders, his chest. He paused at his nipples, taking the tiny nodule in his mouth, suckling and worrying it with his teeth. Sherlock hissed a curse, digging his nails into John's side. John moved to the other nipple, giving in the same attention.

"Christ, John...you'll drive me mad!"

John, grinned against Sherlock's chest, hands roaming to the bulge in Sherlock's pants. "Patience."

"Fuck!" Sherlock's head is thrown back, mouth gaping.

John resumed his quest south, lips leaving a trail of fire down Sherlock's chest and stomach. Experimentally, he probed his tongue into Sherlock's bellybutton, tasting clean sweat and tantalizing musk. Sherlock moaned, tugging insistently at John's hair.

"I should tie those wrists down." John growled.

"Don't make promises you can't keep." Sherlock gasped.

John pinched Sherlock, hard, at his side. "Always have to be clever, even while I'm ravaging you."

His fingers fumbled at the button and zipper of Sherlock's jeans, John stood once more, mouth still sucking and biting at Sherlock's neck. With a trembling hand, he parted Sherlock's fly, pushed underwear down low on his hips. His hand grasped at Sherlock's straining cock, easing it out and causing Sherlock to moan and clutch John's back. John caressed the length of Sherlock, his thumb rubbing at the tip, spreading the moisture around in slow circles. He reached lower to cup Sherlock's balls, rolling them in his soft palm. Sherlock's whimpers continued, muffled as he stuffed a hand into his mouth.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock?" John's whisper ragged with lust.

"You know what I want." Sherlock's hips thrust up, urging John's hand to continue moving.

"I want you to tell me."

"Ah--!" John's hand squeezed Sherlock's cock, almost sending Sherlock over the edge. "I want you to fuck me, John! I want you inside me."

Needing only those words, John let go of Sherlock, eliciting a cry of disappointment. Unbuttoning his jeans, he sheds both pants and underwear in one swift move. Standing before Sherlock, his erect cock nestled beneath a golden thatch of fur, John divested Sherlock of the rest of his clothing as well. Guiding Sherlock's hand to wrap around his shaft, the lithe fingers stroking and squeezing. Sherlock, taking the lead and sunk to his knees, tongue licking the length of the underside of John's cock. He wrapped his lips around the tip, teasingly inserting it in and out of his warm, velvety mouth. John buried his hands in Sherlock's curls, growling deep in his throat. Too much of this and he would be done. Nudging Sherlock with his knee, he encouraged them to an expanse of desk right next to the projector, which is still spinning the movie, its flickering images playing out in the auditorium below for no one.

Helping Sherlock up on the desk, John spat in his hands and rubbed it up the length of his cock. "Sorry... we're going to have to improvise."

"I don't care." Sherlock pulled at John's arm, bringing him to his lips, kissing him desperately. His mouth tasted like John's cock - salty, with an undertone of musky body odor.

John pushed Sherlock's legs up and apart, revealing the pert, brown star at his center. John massaged Sherlock's ass, spreading the cheeks wide. Pressing a thumb at the entrance, he eased the digit inside. Sherlock, nearly undone, stroked his own shaft, pre-cum flowing freely.

John, kneeling lower, licked his tongue all the way up Sherlock's crack, finding his hole and stabbing his tongue inside. His hands massaged Sherlock's balls and he licked and sucked at him.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped. "John... I can't...!"

Knowing the edge was close, John stood up, bracing both their bodies against the desk. He grasped his cock, rubbing more saliva and pre-cum down the length, guiding it to Sherlock's hole.

"Look at me." John ordered, causing Sherlock's eyelids to fly open and his brilliant blue eyes to meet John's. "Don't take your eyes from me."

With that, John entered Sherlock in one hard push, fingers digging into his hips, impaling himself on his body. Sherlock, moans turning to cries, his eyes focused intently on John's face. His hand was still stroking his cock and he braced his other hand against the window of the projection room. John pushed himself deeply into Sherlock's body, long, steady strokes eliciting yelps from his partner. Fucking him without mercy, John pounded into Sherlock, strokes growing quicker, the blood rushing in his ears and blocking out Sherlock's yelps of pleasure. The room seemed to shrink and it is just the two of them, both racing to the precipice of a cliff. John could feel Sherlock's body start to convulse around him and that was the push he needed - flashes of light exploded in his head, John's body stiffened, his cock fully seated in Sherlock as a hot, liquid rush began.

Sherlock cried once, a wordless yell, coming with John, streams of white spurting from his cock. John, light-headed and barely aware of Sherlock's quivering body beneath his own, sagged against Sherlock, letting them both slide gently to the floor below.

Lying entwined together, John waited for the spots to clear from his vision, their cocks softening, all desire spent. John stroked Sherlock's hair. "We...should probably find somewhere more comfortable than the floor."

A joyful laugh burbled from Sherlock's throat. "Perhaps not my wisest choice of tryst locations."

"You kidding? That was hot. I'll never be able to think of Indiana Jones the same again."

They both rose, gathering clothes and belongings. John cleaned up their mess while Sherlock stopped the projector. "I don't want to go home." John said, cautiously.

"I don't want you to go, either."

"So...I can stay?"

"As long as you don't mind my sleeping bag."

John grinned. "Sounds perfect. Just the right place for round two."

Face turning pink and desire curling faintly in his belly once more, Sherlock led John to his room in the basement, the night stretching ahead, possibilities endless.

> Review: Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom by John H. Watson
> 
> Returning once more after his successful outing last year in Raiders of the  
>  Lost Ark, Harrison Ford proves that lightning does, indeed,  
>  strike twice. While perhaps not as original as the first, this sequel  
>  marks the start of the summer popcorn movies. It is the perfect level  
>  of action and adventure one has now come to expect from an Indiana  
>  Jones movie. It left this reviewer gasping for more.
> 
> Rating: 5 out of 5


	6. Gremlins & Ghostbusters, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The caper completed, Sherlock and John fall into normal life. And Mary reacts to the missing files.

John opened his eyes to early morning light filtering through the basement window. Sherlock's head rested on his chest and he was idly tracing circles in the light fuzz of golden hair.

"Keep doing that..." John's voice was gravelly with sleep. "...and we'll have a repeat of last night."

Sherlock's hand splayed across John's chest and inched lower, a teasing smile pulling at his lips.

John chuckled and grabbed the hand, bringing it up to his lips and kissing each fingertip while he whispered "Mine. Mine. Mine."

Sherlock looked at John, captivated. He opened his mouth, let it hang open for a breath, then: "I think I love you." His eyes grew wider and he sat up quickly, clapping both hands to his mouth, as though he could gather the words that had emerged and put them back where they came from. Face flaming, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm so sorry." His voice was muffled from his hands. "I didn't mean to say that."

John sat up, too, drawing one leg up and wrapping his arms around it. "So you don't actually love me?"

"No-- I mean yes-- I mean...!" Sherlock's face turned even redder and he covered it completely with his hands.

Laughing, John tugged at Sherlock's arms, pulling his hands down. "Sherlock... it's okay! Don't be embarrassed. I... I think I love you, too."

"You do?"

John could practically see what Sherlock looked like as a little boy, all hollow eyes too big for his face and floppy curls and Cupid's bow lips. That little boy sat in front of him, hope flooding his eyes, waiting for John's answer. "I do, Sherlock. It's completely ridiculous, but I do!"

John gathered Sherlock back against his chest and buried his face in the curls he loved so much, inhaling deeply. They sat there for a time, all shy smiles and longing glances. Above, they both could hear the sound of the theater humming to life.

"We need to get out of here soon." Sherlock observed, disappointment tingeing his voice. "I don't want to be caught down here."

"We need to get you out of this place." John replied, glancing around disdainfully.

"It's not so bad."

"It's a basement, Sherlock! And not even one you've got permission to stay in."

"Better than the streets." Something in Sherlock's voice caused John to study his lover's face, which had grown haunted.

"Anything you want to tell me."

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "I want my memories of this morning to be happy."

"You say that like you think I'm going somewhere."

"Everyone leaves me, John. It's just a fact."

John felt his heart shatter into pieces at those words. "Well, I won't."

Sherlock blew out a breath, ruffled his hair with his hands, then made a move to get up. "C'mon, John. We can sneak out while the morning shift is busy."

John took the hint and dropped the subject. They both dressed - John in the previous night's clothes, Sherlock in fresh jeans and a blue t-shirt that made his eyes even more vibrant. Sherlock rolled up his sleeping bag and they left, peeking out the basement door and waiting for the right time to leave.

It was a beautifully sunny day, so they walked to the park and strolled through the grass, hands clasped, arms swinging. They talked of movies and constellations and nothing in particular. The early morning seriousness left for another time.

"We should see if Greg wants to have that dinner sometime this week." John mused.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, why? That means spending an evening with Sally... on purpose."

"Why do you two hate each other so much?"

Shrugging, Sherlock went silent.

"Hey. You can't clam up every time I want to know something about your past."

"Greg, Sally, and I... we were best friends in school. She didn't like some of my choices. Never forgave me for some of the things I did while I was high."

"That's all? She won't let bygones be bygones?"

Sherlock scrubbed at his nose uncomfortably. "I might have...made a scene. At prom. With Victor."

"Go on...." John bumped Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock continued. "Sally was meant to be prom queen and I might have...." The end of Sherlock's sentence ended in an unintelligible mutter.

"Sherlock!" John laughed. "Whatever it is you did is in the past. I promise I'm not going to judge you for it."

"Okay, okay." Sherlock flapped his free hand around, as though to banish his own embarrassment. "I told everyone that I saw Sally kissing someone who wasn't her boyfriend behind the bleachers. And that someone was another girl. She made a huge scene and punched me... gave me a black eye. They wouldn't let her keep the prom queen title after that and she got in-school suspension for the rest of the year. Lost her chance at valedictorian. She knew Victor and I had just been getting high and she's never forgiven me for what I did, or for what the drugs did to me, even though I got clean."

"Oh." John's eyes widened a little. "You made up the rumor about kissing a girl?"

"No. She was madly in love with Rena Dearborn, but no one knew - especially not her boyfriend."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"But you're clean now...and you wouldn't do something like that intentionally."

"You give me too much credit, John." Sherlock laughed, tipping his head back to soak up the warm sun. "I am far too clever for my own good, I think I know it all, and I will have the last word if it kills me. I've said some pretty awful things to the people I love and it has driven them away from me. Being sober has nothing to do with it. It's only a matter of time 'til I do it to you."

John stopped walking and dropped Sherlock's hands. He gathered him up in a tight hug. "I won't let you drive me away. That's a promise."

Sherlock clung to John even tighter and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. "I can't promise anything, John. I know one day I'll disappoint you."

"You." John pulled back and cupped the sides of Sherlock's face with both hands. "Are my superb, remarkable, exceptional man. I would travel to hell and back if you needed me to. And I will never be disappointed in you." He finished by softly kissing Sherlock's nose.

"I've never heard anyone say things like that to me." Sherlock murmured, wonder suffusing his voice. "Not Victor. Not my family. No one."

"Well, you deserve to hear it every day." John let go of Sherlock and ran ahead, jumping up on the edge of the water fountain that dominated the center of the park. "SHERLOCK HOLMES IS PHENOMENAL!" John bellowed at the top of his lungs, bending down to splash a massive stream of water up in the air.

Sherlock loped to the fountain, tugging at John's arm. "Get down! What if someone sees?"

"Fuck 'em!" John crowed and yanked Sherlock up on the ledge with him. He pressed his lips greedily to Sherlock's, bending him backwards in a quintessential movie kiss.

A small gasp alerted them to company; a woman walking with her daughter, who couldn't be more than three or four, eyed them in outrage. "There are children in this park, you know. You boys should be ashamed of yourself!"

John laughed derisively and jumped off the fountain ledge, pulling Sherlock with him. "Oh, get over yourself." He threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and they walked away from the spluttering woman.

"That wasn't embarrassing at all." Sherlock observed.

"Ah, hang her. She obviously had a stick stuck up her ass."

Sherlock looked at John suspiciously. "What happened to being ashamed of your feelings for me?"

Now it was John's turn to look uncomfortable. "I'm not ashamed of you."

"But...?"

"But I'm not going to lie to you. I know I still have some issues to work out about who I am. It's hard, Sherlock. Someone like me isn't exactly accepted by very many people. That encounter back there was tame compared to what happens all over to people like us."

"You don't have to tell me it's hard to be different." Sherlock snapped and pulled away from John's embrace, walking quickly to get ahead of him."

"That was an idiotic thing to say. I'm sorry.. Sherlock! Come back!"

Sherlock ignored the request, but slowed until he was back at John's side. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm making an effort. I love you...desperately."

Sherlock turned his eyes to John, his face pulled into a sulky pout.

"I am trying to become more comfortable with the idea of loving you. Because it's not going away, Sherlock. And I don't want it to. I hope you'll forgive me if I slip up and say something hurtful, because the last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt you."

Sherlock's resolve broke and he let a reluctant smile return to his face. He grabbed John's hand once more and they continued their walk, ignoring any disapproving glances that might come their way.

***

The first streaks of pink and purple painted the evening sky by the time John arrived home. His night and day spent with Sherlock had seemed like an escape from everything. Back to reality. He thought, slipping his key into the lock of the front door.

He dropped the bag Sherlock had given him with all of Mary's files at the foot of the stairs to carry up to his room later. First, the kitchen - he and Sherlock had eaten earlier in the day, but John was still hungry. He stopped short at the kitchen entrance, though, to find his mother sitting at the table, shredding a napkin and nursing a cup of tea. The dark circles under her eyes told John it had been a rough day.

"Ma? What's wrong? Is it Harry?"

Rose Watson started and jumped to her feet. "John! Where have you been?"

"I was with a friend... we were working on a project." John replied, confused.

"I was worried all day today - I didn't know when you were coming back!"

"I'm sorry... I guess I should have left a note? I will next time."

"John, you can't just disappear for a couple of days at a time and not let me know what's happening. I've already got enough to worry about with Harry!"

"Ma, it was overnight and part of today and I'm an adult. I didn't think it would be a problem."

Rose sat back down, trying to calm herself. "I know you're an adult, John. But we've had such trouble when...."

"When I was younger." John's lips pressed thin and he wondered if James's shadow would ever let him have peace. "That was a fluke... I've changed."

"You were just working on a project? For school?"

John felt a prickle of embarrassment up the back of his neck as images of Sherlock's alabaster body stretched out beneath him, a look of ecstasy on both their faces, flashed through his mind. "Yeah, just a school project. With a friend."

Rose finally let herself relax. "I'm so glad you're making friends, John."

"Look, ma... I'm sorry I didn't leave a note. I will next time. But you don't have to worry, okay? I'm a big boy."

"Well, you'll always be my first baby to me. But I'm sorry I overreacted. Mother's prerogative and all that."

"Right." John grabbed some leftovers from the fridge. "I've, uh, got some stuff to finish on this project, so I'm going up to my room."

A sliver of guilt settled at the bottom of his heart as John climbed the stairs to his room. I'll tell her the truth later. What she doesn't know, won't hurt her.

***

Friday

"Where are they?"

John glanced up from scrawling a few notes about the weekend's upcoming movies. Mary stood at his desk, her face pink and her eyes blazing with anger. "Oh. Mary. Hi."

"Don't play dumb with me." She hissed through gritted teeth. "I know you took my files."

"You're missing some files? Gosh, that's a shame. You really should keep stuff locked away. Who knows what happens around this place at night. Maybe the janitors accidentally threw your things away?" John clasped his hands and attempted to look innocent.

"How did you do it?" Mary shrieked. "How could you possibly have taken them?"

Squinting his eyes and leaning forward towards Mary, John spoke softly. "Look. I don't really like what you're implying. As far as I'm concerned, we don't need to talk or interact anymore. You have nothing that interests me."

Mary, chest heaving, stared wildly at John. "I can still write it, you know! I don't have to prove anything!"

"True." John mused. "You could. That wouldn't be very nice. Or ethical, even. Might ruin any chances of advancing around here, but maybe you aren't interested in that?"

Mary fell silent, her eyes widening.

"And," John continued. "I imagine if you kept harassing me, I'd probably have to visit the editor and talk to him about it. I'm sure he would be really annoyed at having to break all this up over a silly movie review column."

John stood and got in extremely close, until his mouth was right by Mary's ear. "Do yourself a favor, Mary. Leave me alone. Leave Sherlock Holmes alone. Because one thing you might not know about me is that I am very, very loyal to the people I love. And when the people I love get hurt, things can happen to the ones who hurt them. Are we understood?"

Mary swallowed and twitched her chin up in assent.

"Besides. I've spent the week doing a little investigation of my own." John smiled. "I find it interesting that you want to write such things about Sherlock and me when your brother, Jim... well... I suppose it's different when it's family, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mary's voice was an octave higher and quavering.

"No. I don't suppose you do." John stared straight into Mary's eyes. "Drop this. Move on. Let us be. Understood?"

Mary swallowed, obviously fighting tears. "I don't know why Jim wanted this stupid job, anyway. It's far beneath his talents."

She turned on her heels and scurried away. Like the rat that she is. John thought, satisfaction spreading across his face.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock appeared, carrying his satchel of books. They had planned to spend most of the weekend working on the script for the film competition and planning shots. Sunday night, after John went to his weekly matinee, they were meeting up with Greg, Sally, and Molly for dinner. John had left his mother a note that he would be gone most of the weekend. His life had never felt this normal.

I'm lucky. John thought, smiling and grabbing his bag before taking Sherlock's free hand in his own. Damn lucky.

> Review: Ghostbusters by John H. Watson
> 
> An infectiously fun blend of special effects and comedy, Ghostbusters  
>  feels like an instant classic. The buddy comedy format works perfectly  
>  and the castmembers obviously have chemistry with each other. It speaks  
>  to movie-goers of all ages and is the perfect destination for a  
>  family movie outing.
> 
> Rating: 5 out of 5
> 
> Review: Gremlins by John H. Watson
> 
> Another fine example of the popcorn movie viewers expect to find during  
>  the summer. Gremlins is original, satirically funny, and has just enough  
>  horror scares to make it the perfect date movie for couples who want to  
>  cuddle up in the movie theater.
> 
> Rating: 4 out of 5

Please note: Around the Water Cooler with Miss Mary will be taking an extended hiatus. Mary Morstan, however, will continue to receive letters for the advice column, Dear Mary. Please direct all other inquiries to the editor.


	7. Summer, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock settle into couplehood during the summer of 1984, experiencing life's pleasures and pain together.

Life has a way of rearranging itself to accommodate, shifting seismically and falling back into place to create a new normal. Sherlock and John fell into couplehood easily that summer, the new routine fitting them like a well-worn glove.

Their days were filled with classes, writing papers, grabbing quick lunches together in the courtyard, John sitting against a tree with Sherlock's head in his lap. John fed Sherlock bits of his sandwich and they hashed out the latest pages of John's script for the film competition. Shifts at the diner and the theater, the time apart seemed to crawl by at a snail-like pace. Sherlock spent evenings in John's bedroom, nose buried in books about film theory and cinematography, while John scribbled pages for the script or jotted notes for his next movie review.

Movies; they saw a ridiculous amount of movies, both the good and the hilariously bad. After they saw The Karate Kid, neither was safe from the other leaping from behind doors or around corners and fake karate-chopping at the hapless victim. Sherlock had been startled by John enough times that he now responded by going into crane pose, which never failed to dissolve John into boyish giggles. The Last Starfighter prompted John to drag Sherlock to an arcade, showing him the finer techniques of achieving a high score on all the games. Sherlock bet John a blow job that he could beat the high score at Pac-Man... and then happily accepted defeat and made John gasp his name out over and over in the back of a dark, empty theater auditorium later that night. Cloak & Dagger followed by Red Dawn followed by The Woman in Red... the movies stacked up, marking the days as summer waxed and waned.

Nights were reserved for exploring each other's bodies and what gave them pleasure. Sherlock learned that John was ticklish, especially around his ribcage, and delighted in sending his lover into hysterical giggles. John memorized every freckle on Sherlock's body, explored every crevice with tongue and fingers. Some nights the sex was slow and gentle; other nights found Sherlock pushed against the wall, John thrusting desperately while Sherlock dug his fingers into John's arms. More nights were spent entwined in each other's arms, drifting off to sleep, than not.

The film competition loomed closer; the submission deadline even more so. John's script was long finished and edited; filming had begun the previous month, with Greg, Sally, and Molly taking on parts as a favor. Some of their other peers from school were wrangled into the production as well. Sherlock convinced one of his professors to give him a key to the film lab and he spent hours piecing film together, editing audio, making notes of which scenes they would need to re-take. John joined him when he could, bringing leftover diner food and distracting Sherlock by kissing him on the back of his neck. John still hadn't lived down the night he ruined an entire section of film by taking Sherlock right there on the work-table and, in his frenzy, knocking over a container of film developer and soaking the entire evening's progress. He owed Sherlock a date night for that one.

Life, in short, had become excessively happy and frighteningly normal. They alternated between staying at the theater and staying at John's house when his mother worked the long night shift. Harry continued to party too hard, occasionally stumbling home in a drunken stupor. She met Sherlock once, but John was sure she didn't remember as she'd been half-carried into the house by one of her friends. John talked to Sherlock about how much he worried for his sister, his mother. Sherlock didn't know how to help besides holding John and stroking his hair while he talked. Together, they weathered both sad and happy days steadily as long as they were together.

Near the end of summer, John planned a date night on a mutual day off. His mother had taken a double shift and Harry had a new girlfriend she was practically living with, so he had the house to himself. John had poured over one of his mother's cookbooks, finally deciding he could attempt angel hair pasta with shrimp and salad. He cheated and picked up a chocolate torte from his favorite bakery for dessert. The actual cooking proved harrowing, so when Sherlock arrived for the date he found John with his hair a mess still wearing an apron stained with sauce.

"Anderson makes this look so much easier at the diner." John joked, letting Sherlock in.

Sherlock smirked and leaned in for a kiss. "You taste delicious." He mused.

"I think it's butter." John wiped at a splotch on his cheek. "Come in? I've just set the table in the kitchen. I know, high romance."

"It's okay." Sherlock laughed. "It's not like it's our first date...and I don't mind casual."

John took the stairs two at a time and quickly changed into something without stains. He smoothed his hair back into place, then returned to the kitchen. He'd covered the table with one of the good tablecloths from the hall closet and lit a tapered candle. Sherlock had seated himself and was waiting, suddenly shy. John brought their plates to the table. "Bon appétit!" He exclaimed in an overly exaggerated French accent, which caused Sherlock to snort out a laugh.

"This is amazing." Sherlock said, popping a forkful of noodles and shrimp into his mouth.

John could watch him eat forever, those perfect lips wrapping around the fork. He grinned goofily at Sherlock, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

Sherlock delicately licked his lips and returned the smile. "You know, looking like that is going to get us to dessert faster than you've probably planned." He slid a foot up John's calf, rubbing lightly.

John blushed and laughed, "Yeah...probably." He picked up his fork and twirled some pasta onto the tines. "Not sure I'd mind, but I guess I did put a lot of work into the food."

"It's been good, you know." Sherlock grew serious. "Not the food - well, I mean, the food is great - but all of it. This summer...us..." He shrugged, flustered.

John snagged Sherlock's hand in his, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. "It's been perfect. Will continue to be perfect... just like you."

Sherlock turned his head away, smiling, a blush suffusing his cheeks and making him look ten times more attractive to John.

John cleared his throat, resisting the urge to dive across the table and satisfy another, entirely different hunger. "I, uh, actually have an ulterior motive for this date."

Sherlock arched a questioning eyebrow. "Do tell?"

"Well, I've been thinking. I know, dangerous activity. But the thing is... we work, you and I. Don't you think? We really work well together."

"We do...." Sherlock agreed, cautiously.

"And you already spend a lot of time here with me. At least half, I reckon."

"What are you getting at, John?"

John blew out a breath, deciding to just spill it all out. "I think you should move in with me."

Sherlock froze, his eyes darting back and forth. "Move...in? Here?"

"I know it's not exactly ideal. I mean, we'd have to hide it from my mom and Harry...somehow. But they're hardly here, and they already know you and I work on film projects together, so it wouldn't be that hard. Sherlock, I just want to get you out of that theater basement. And maybe I'm a bit selfish, too. Maybe I'd like to fall asleep with you in my arms every night instead of just some."

"Ah...yes... the basement." Sherlock pulled a face.

"What? Something happen?"

"Sort of. Or will happen. I found out yesterday that management is planning a massive clean-out and rearranging all storage areas. Including the basement."

"So now's the perfect time for you to not be there anymore! C'mon, Sherlock. Move in here... I know it'll be hard for a bit. But maybe we can save for a place of our own soon, yeah?"

Sherlock still remained unconvinced. "What if you decide you can't stand me once I move in?"

"When are you going to realize I'm telling you the truth when I say I love you? I want to be with you!"

Sherlock studied his hands, nervously tearing apart a piece of lettuce from his salad. Finally, quietly, he gave his answer. "I would very much like to move in, John. Thank you."

John leapt from his chair and went around the table, gathering Sherlock up into a hug, pressing his face into the dark curls he loved so much. "Don't be so formal, love." He whispered. "This won't change anything, it'll just make it better."

Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to John's, drinking in the kiss as though he was a man who had walked through a desert with no water. They stood like that for a space of time, holding each other and murmuring soft words of comfort.

"I think the pasta has gone cold." Whispered John, eliciting a rumbled laugh from Sherlock.

"Sorry. Think it's reheatable?"

John wrinkled his nose. "Probably not. It's okay, though. There's still chocolate torte. C'mon... let's go to the backyard to eat it."

"Why are we eating it outside?"

"You'll see."

John had ascended the stairs to the attic earlier that day. He knew somewhere in the jumble of boxes was his dad's old telescope. It only took an hour, a couple of chipped fingernails and a bump to the knee to find it. The telescope was now standing in the middle of the backyard, its scope tilted up towards the night sky. A small pile of blankets rested beside it and John shook one out, draping it over Sherlock's shoulders.

"You know my dad taught me about the constellations and the planets with this thing." John patted the telescope. "I want to show you what he showed me."

Together, they huddled around the telescope. John showed Sherlock how to look through the eyepiece. Sherlock yelped in delight as the moon snapped into focus. The night, pleasantly cool and a little breezy, passed with them taking turns looking up into the heavens. John fed them both bites of the chocolate torte in between telling stories of the constellations. After awhile, they stretched out on a blanket on the lawn, alternating between taking bites of torte and kissing.

"I'll help you get your stuff out of the basement tomorrow." John said, Sherlock resting between his legs, head nestled at his collarbone.

"There's not much there. Shouldn't take more than one trip. But I'd appreciate the help so no one sees me packing a sleeping bag around work."

John stroked Sherlock's hair off his forehead and sighed. "I wish we could freeze this moment and live in it forever."

Taking another bite of torte, Sherlock hummed in agreement. "A little slice of perfect life."

"Still... more perfect slices to come." John said.

"Many more."

"Want to go in? It's getting a little cold."

Sherlock nodded and pulled himself to his feet. "I'd like to see how this torte tastes licked off your chest, actually."

Hit with a wave of hot lust as he imagined just that, John grins wickedly at Sherlock. "I can think of a few places I wouldn't mind licking it off you."

Giggling, John chased Sherlock back into the house and up the stairs, their date continuing long into the night.

***

"I think this is it." Sherlock hands John the box of his belongings after checking to make sure none of his co-workers were watching. "And just in time, too. I almost ran into a manager coming downstairs to start inventory. Thanks, John... you saved me, again."

"Just returning the favor." John took the box and rested it on his hip. "I'll run these home, come back later. Want to see Tightrope tonight? Clint Eastwood...serial killers... might be good?"

Sherlock nodded, happily, and waved good-bye to John before returning to stocking the concession stand.

Turning to leave, John's shoulder collided with another man a little older than himself. Tall and imperious, he was dressed in a well-tailored casual suit, dark grey jacket buttoned over a black shirt. His nose flared and he glared down at John, a gingery curl artfully falling over his forehead.

"Excuse me." John said apologetically. "Didn't see you there."

The man carried a furled black umbrella with an ornate handle, despite the fact that the skies outside were sunny and clear. He sniffed delicately and turned dismissively away from John, heading to the concession counter.

Before John could continue his exit, he heard a crash behind him. Sherlock had dropped the stack of cups he'd been arranging and they had cascaded to the floor, rolling in all directions. The red-haired stranger stood before him. Sherlock's face was white as a sheet, his lips pressed to thin slits. John set the box of Sherlock's belongings behind one of the massive potted plants dotting the theater lobby and rushed back to see what was wrong.

"Sherlock? Everything all right?"

The stranger turned and glared at him. "This has nothing to do with you, young man."

"Well, considering this is my boyfriend, I think it does." Sherlock's eyes flicked quickly to John, registering shock at the use of the word "boyfriend". John puffed his chest and stood his ground in front of the man. "Who's this guy, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. He appeared to be unable to talk. John swung around the counter to stand by his side, grasping Sherlock's icy fingers in his own warm hand.

"I," drawled the man. "Am his brother, Mycroft. And I see my brother's... proclivities... remain unchanged."

"Ah, so you're the brother. Well, I don't know why you're here, but Sherlock obviously doesn't want to speak with you, so I'll kindly ask you to leave."

Mycroft pinned John with a stony stare and John could now understand why Sherlock had been so intimidated by his brother.

"Our mother and father worry about Sherlock." Mycroft said primly. "They asked me to find him and see if he's come to his senses and wants to come home. They're particularly concerned because Victor has been calling our home. It's quite distressing for them."

"Victor? Your old..?" John asked, receiving a curt nod from Sherlock.

"His drug dealer." Mycroft snapped. "Don't worry, I've not told him how to find you, brother mine. I can see you've already fallen low enough without Victor's help."

"Don't." Growled Sherlock. "Don't blame Victor for my mistakes."

"Oh, believe me, Sherlock. I blame you for plenty as well."

Sherlock's chest heaved with unshed tears.

"That's it." John strode around the counter and got in Mycroft's face. "I'm not asking nicely anymore. Leave. Or I'll help you out."

Mycroft's jaw flexed before he finally nodded once and backed up a step. "I can see nothing has changed, Sherlock. You are still the disappointment you've always been. Should you decide to grow up and make something of yourself, you know where to find me."

Mycroft spun on his heels and stalked out. Sherlock stood, frozen, behind the counter, the spilled cups still at his feet. A few of his co-workers glanced his way and whispered to each other. His eyes swum with hot tears as he watched his brother leave.

John returned to his side, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "So... you think he has a sword hidden in that umbrella?"

The tears finally fell as Sherlock choked out a half sob/half laugh, turning to John and burying his face in his shoulder. Heaving sobs wrack his body. John clings to him, stroking his back and glaring at anyone who dared to stare for too long.

"It's okay." John whispered. "He doesn't know anything about you. Shhh. Don't... don't cry, Sherlock."

"I'll never be anything to them, John." Voice muffled by John's shoulder, but the anguish in Sherlock's words was clear. "Never. Not while I am who I am."

John coaxed Sherlock away from his shoulder, cupped his face with his hands. Sherlock's face was red and damp, his eyes full of naked pain. "Then you don't need them. If they don't love you as you are, they're the wrong ones, not you."

"What did I do that was so wrong?" Sherlock whined, his lips trembling with the threat of another torrent of tears.

"Nothing." Crooned John, rubbing his hands over Sherlock's shoulders. "They're blind, Sherlock. They don't see the beautiful soul I see. And that's their loss, not yours."

Sherlock wiped a hand across his face, smearing the tears and snot and managing to look like a lost little boy. John laughed softly. "Oh, Sherlock... you're a mess. C'mere."

He hugged him close again, smoothing damp curls back and gently kissing Sherlock's forehead. "I think we've been well and fully outed, love."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured. "I didn't mean to make a scene like that. He just makes me feel so... wrong. Like I'm perverted."

"It's okay. C'mon, let's pick up these cups. If people want to stare and talk, let 'em."

They bent and gathered the scattered cups, stacking them neatly. The familiar motion of work seemed to soothe Sherlock, whose face lost its redness, though his eyes were still puffy and damp. After they were done, John covered Sherlock's hand with his own and they stayed, kneeling on the floor, for a moment.

"You going to be okay?" John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. "I think so."

"Still want to do the movie tonight, or do you just want to go home?"

"Home... that's a nice word." A ghost of a smile played at Sherlock's lips. "But I think a movie first would be a nice distraction."

"You'll always be home with me, Sherlock." John leaned over and dropped a kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Let me take your stuff home, okay? You go wash your face in the bathroom and I'll be back in a little while for the movie. Yeah?"

"I'll be okay, John." They both stood up.

"I know you will."

***

"Holmes residence."

"Please, Mycroft...I need to speak with Sherlock. It's important."

"Victor, I believe I've asked you to stop calling. My brother no longer lives here."

"But surely you know where he is!"

"I think the last thing my brother needs is you in his life again."

"I have something important I need to talk to him about."

"For the last time, my brother is not here and I will not be divulging where he is to the likes of you. If you're so desperate to find him, use your brain and figure out where he is. But mark my words, if you meddle with his life again, I will make sure your own life is worth nothing."

"Joke's on you, then... my life is already worth that."

*Click*

> Review: _Tightrope_ by John H. Watson
> 
> Clint Eastwood takes a chance playing a character so vastly different  
>  than his usual heroic tough guys in this surprisingly taut serial  
>  killer mystery. While it is grim and not for the faint of heart,  
>  the film is brilliant for exploring the idea of a hard-nosed cop  
>  learning to respect women. With an intriguing blend of law and order,  
>  _Tightrope_ is film noir at its best.
> 
>  
> 
> Rating: 4 out of 5


	8. Irreconcilable Differences, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John compete in the film competition and receive some news.

"So you turned in the entry?" John twined his fingers in Sherlock's hand, gently pressed his lips to a bare shoulder.

"Mm-hmm." Sherlock's eyes were closed and he turned to nuzzle at John's neck.

They were stretched out on John's bed, limbs wrapped around each other, enjoying the afterglow of sex. Outside, the sun sunk low in the horizon, long shadows stretched across the backyard.

"We've still got a week 'til results." John had moved to Sherlock's wrist and nipped at it lightly. "Think we have a chance?"

Grinning mischievously, Sherlock twisted his body and in one swift move, pinned John to the bed. He braced his arms at either side of John's shoulders and dipped down to kiss his lips. "I think." He mused. "That what we made was brilliant. Thanks mostly due to your writing, I might add. But who knows how many other brilliant entries there might be?"

John pulled a face. "Including Mary's brother. Heard him boasting to some friends about the ground-breaking film he submitted."

Sherlock probed his tongue along John's collarbone. "Forget him." He murmured. "It doesn't matter anymore. This is the only thing that matters."

John moaned as Sherlock pressed his mouth to his chest, traveling lower, fingers straying down to grip his hardening cock. He fisted his hands in Sherlock's mop of curls, tugging sharply, which elicited a deep chuckle from Sherlock's throat.

"Johnny?" Rose Watson's voice echoed from the hallway outside John's door. She followed it up with a tentative rap.

"Shit!" John hissed, shoving Sherlock off of him, off the bed. Hopping as quietly as possible, Sherlock leapt for the bathroom. This was not the first time they'd had to go into emergency mode. John knew Sherlock would be climbing into the shower, trying to make himself very small.

"Just a minute, ma!" He called out, fumbling to pull on his discarded pajama pants. His eyes darted over the floor for telltale signs of Sherlock. He pushed a pair of shoes very obviously not his own under the bed, tossed a blanket over Sherlock's work clothes scattered on John's desk chair, then crossed the room to crack open the door.

"Hi!" Rose smiled cheerfully. "Busy?"

John's pajama bottoms chafed against him, a reminder of how aroused he'd been mere seconds ago. "Um. Kinda?"

"Oh. Okay. It's okay... it's nothing." Rose, smile disappearing, turned to go to her own bedroom.

"Wait, ma... is everything all right?" John opened the door a little wider, trying to angle his body so his mother didn't see the state he was in.

"It's nothing, Johnny." Rose tried to smile again, but it faltered on the way up to her eyes. "But if you have some free time soon, I thought maybe we could talk? I hardly ever see you anymore."

"Well, you know... school... work... the competition."

Rose nodded. "I know. All good things. But a mother still misses her son, you know?"

John smiled sheepishly, a trickle of guilt dripping down his back. "Sure. Maybe we can have a family night soon?"

"Oh, that'd be wonderful, Johnny! Rope your sister in, too. I've got some things I want to talk to you both about, anyway."

"Anything urgent?" John tried to figure out if the look on his mother's face was anything to worry about.

"No, no." Rose waved her hand casually at him. "Not really. It'll keep."

"Okay. G'night, ma."

"Goodnight, Johnny." She retreated to her room and John went back into his, closing the door with a huff of relief.

"You can come out now." He called softly towards the bathroom.

Sherlock slid back into the room, looking slightly self conscious at his lack of clothes. "Well. That was a close one." He flopped back on John's bed and patted the space beside him. "Shall we continue?"

John sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed his hair. "Mmm... mood's kind of dead, I think. Can we just... be together?"

"'Course." Sherlock rose to a sitting position and began rubbing at John's shoulders and neck, dropping a light kiss at the base of his neck where his golden hair ended in a small, tufty "V". "Sorry."

"No...nothing to apologize for." John leaned back into Sherlock's kneading hands. "I just feel like she's not telling me something important."

Sherlock snorted lightly. "You should talk."

"Yeah." Chuckled John. "I know. I don't know how to tell her."

"I'm not pressuring you, John. You know how that went with my family."

"She won't respond like that." John bit his lip. "I don't think."

"It's the unknown that makes it scary."

"Maybe if my sister wasn't the way she was."

"She's gay, John. Like me."

John turned to Sherlock, a look of consternation on his face. "Not like you."

"Like me. Only with girls."

John scrunched his nose. "Don't."

"I don't know why it makes you uncomfortable. You haven't forgotten that you're in a relationship with a man, have you?"

Both their bodies were tense. Sherlock's brow beetled angrily and his hands were now clasped in his laps, knuckles white from how tightly he squeezed them together.

"It's different, though." John protested.

"How?"

"I don't know! You don't... flaunt it around."

"Your sister is young. She's exploring her sexuality. That's why she flaunts it around. Believe me, I did my flaunting when I was younger."

"You?"

"Yes, me." Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands. "John... I know you aren't ashamed of me. You've shown me so many ways that you love me. But I think it's time to stop being ashamed of yourself. And of your sister. You are both so alike... and you could be there for each other so much more."

John didn't reply, just sat still for a moment, watching Sherlock. Finally, he scooted closer, grabbed Sherlock's hands to stop the fingers from worrying.

"Can you just... hold me?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock's gaze softened and he nodded, shoulders relaxing.

John curled back against Sherlock's long, lean body, resting his head on Sherlock's arm. He tried to match Sherlock's breath and after a few moments, his eyes drifted closed and he lost himself in sleep.

***

"Look at how handsome you are!" Rose reached out to straighten the grey and turquoise tie John was nervously tugging at. "You're so grown up!"

"If I'm so grown up, why is my mother straightening my tie?" John gave her a crooked smile.

Smacking him lightly on the chest, Rose laughed. "Mothers never grow out of that sort of thing. I'll be straightening your tie on your wedding day."

She turned to beam at Sherlock, who stood awkwardly in the kitchen, yet still managed to look devastatingly sexy to John in a fitted purple dress shirt and black tie, black suit jacket draped over one shoulder. "And Sherlock! I'm so glad you came by to go with John. You both worked so hard on this film... I'm proud of you both."

A light blush colored Sherlock's cheekbones and his blue eyes darted to John's, conveying so much feeling in one brief look. _Tell her now?_ They seemed to say.

John twitched his head minutely back and forth. _Not yet._

Though Sherlock insisted he didn't need John to come out for him, the matter was still a bone of contention between them, along with the subject of Harry's sexuality. At college, John didn't hide the fact that he and Sherlock were a couple, but he also couldn't bring himself to be very blatant about it. Even so, he was starting to see small, disapproving glances. Occasionally he would hear the whisper of an unpleasant word thrown in his direction. Each time, he had to resist beating whoever was talking to a pulp. The only time he felt completely at ease was with Greg, Sally, and Molly, who all accepted Sherlock and John being together as naturally as if it had been that way forever.

"Are you all doing something to celebrate afterwards?" Rose asked, trying to smooth John's unruly hair.

John ducked his head. "One: we haven't won yet. And two: either way, the group is going to the movies after. _Irreconcilable Differences_."

"True film students!" Rose laughed. "Okay. Have fun... you sure I shouldn't be at the awards ceremony?"

"Appreciate the offer, ma." John pecked his mother on the cheek. "But I know you have to work and it's really not a big deal."

They waved good bye and headed out the door, where Greg waited with his car; he was driving all five of them to the awards. They planned to have dinner after, though they weren't sure if it would be in celebration or commiseration. And John hadn't lied - he did plan to go to the movies, too. But it would be after the theater closed and he and Sherlock would spend the bulk of the movie with their hands all over each other.

"Ready to win this thing?" Greg hollered out the open car window.

John and Sherlock exchanged smiles with each other and John bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's. "C'mon. Let's go have fun."

***

Mary's shoes tapped rapidly down the hall to the auditorium. She checked her watch, noting in annoyance that the ceremony started ten minutes ago. "Damned traffic." She hissed to herself. "If I missed Jimmy's category....

She was so distracted with the time and her need to get inside the auditorium, she almost collided with the young man hovering outside the door. He was tall and lean, with mocha colored skin and pale, whiskey-colored eyes. His black hair was cropped close to his scalp and he wore a tight t-shirt emblazoned with the name of a rock band over faded black jeans.

"Oh! Excuse me!" Mary stopped short, fluffing her hair and giving the young man a long, appraising look. "I didn't see you there."

"No, that was my fault." His voice was soft, almost musical. "I don't suppose if you know whether Sherlock Holmes is inside?"

Mary wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I assume he is, since he's up for an award." She waved her hand towards the ceremony schedule the man clutched in one hand. "As you well know."

"Right." He looked uncomfortable. "I just wasn't sure if he would show up."

"I'm sure he's in there with John Watson. Those two are joined at the hip." Mary sniffed, lifting her chin a fraction and pasting a look of utter boredom on her face. "You can go in with me if you want, though."

"I'd really just like to wait out here to talk to Sherlock."

"Well, you'll be waiting for awhile. They're participants in the competition; they'll probably go out the side entrance."

"Would you mind showing me how to get there?"

Heaving a sign of impatience and checking her watch once more, Mary tugged the stranger over to a map of the building posted on the wall. "You go down that hall, take a right there...down those stairs and...right there."

Thanking her, the man loped off in the right direction and Mary rolled her eyes. "Thanks a lot for the delay." She muttered, as she swept into the auditorium and hurried to find a seat.

***

"Look at it!" John crowed, showing Sherlock the check they had been handed for grand prize. "That's more zeroes than I've ever seen in one place!"

Sherlock beamed, a happy flush suffusing his cheeks. He clutched the trophy that came with grand prize. The night was a bit of a blur of applause and happy excitement. He wasn't even sure he remembered what he'd said in his thank you speech.

"You lot will get some of this." John said to Greg, Sally, and Molly, waving the check in the air. "We couldn't have done it without your help. And the rest..." He glanced at Sherlock and they shared a secret smile.

They talked for the last month about getting their own place. Neither their salaries were quite enough to stretch to cover school costs and living expenses, but with a little help from the prize money, John thought they might just squeak by. Maybe they'd have to eventually get a roommate, but at least they could pick and choose who to live with, in that case.

"Nah, don't worry about us!" Greg drawled. "We're just happy to see you win. You deserved it! That film was amazing!"

Bumping shoulders and chattering happily, the group spilled out the side door. They talked about where to eat - not the diner this time. A win like this called for something fancier. Several seconds ticked by before John realized Sherlock had stopped mid-step and was staring at someone standing nearby.

"Sherlock?" John looked back worriedly.

Sherlock's face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide. The man standing a few feet away lifted a tentative hand in a wave.

"Hi, Sherlock." A soft smile hinted at the corners of the man's lips.

John furrowed his brow in confusion as he glanced between the two men. "Sherlock? Who's this?"

The answer was a punch to the gut in the form of one whispered word. "Victor."

John's stomach heaved, his long ago lunch making a return visit and threatening to come back up. "Victor?!" He gasped tightly.

The young man glanced at John, eyes cool. "I don't believe I know you?"

John felt the anger come on quickly. His fists balled, he opened his mouth to say something rash, but Sherlock stopped him with a raised hand.

"It's okay, John. Please. Let me handle this. What is it, Victor? What do you want?"

"I've been trying to get in touch." Victor said coyly. "Can we go somewhere... quiet?"

Sherlock's face took on a pained expression. "I... don't think I want to. Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of John. He knows what I know, and vice versa."

Victor cast another look at John, this one more calculating. "I'm afraid I don't feel comfortable talking about this in front of anyone. Please...?"

A tightening of the jaw was the only indication that Sherlock was under a great deal of stress. He nodded curtly. "Fine. Let's walk over here." He gestured across the courtyard. "I'll only be a moment, John."

"I'll wait." John said through gritted teeth.

Greg, Sally, and Molly were shooed away amidst protests and John leaned against the building, eyes following the figures of Sherlock and Victor as they strolled together.

There was a fountain in the middle of the courtyard; Sherlock and Victor stopped there. They appeared to be in deep conversation. After a few moments, Sherlock turned quickly away and walked a few steps, then paced back. He reached a hand to touch Victor on the shoulder, which made John's skin jump and his heart pound furiously in his throat. He wished he could run over and yank Sherlock back to him, holding him until he promised never to talk to another man for the rest of his life.

 _Stupid._ John chided himself. _Jealous._

Sherlock's head was bowed now as Victor continued to talk. He shook his head several times and Victor covered his face with his hands. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, but was - in reality - probably only a minute or so. Finally, Sherlock turned from Victor and walked back to John. His hands were buried in his pockets and his face had a greenish cast to it.

"All right?" John asked, touching Sherlock's arm lightly.

Sherlock jerked his entire body away from John and shook his head. "Not here. Let's go."

John had to push his stocky body to move faster as Sherlock strode quickly to the parking lot, his long legs taking impossibly large steps. Their friends were waiting in the car for them and Sherlock climbed in, refusing to say a word to John. When John climbed in beside him, Sherlock shrunk away, plastering himself as close to the car door as he could, making a gap of no contact between them.

"Where to?" Greg asked, worried eyes flashing in the rearview mirror.

"I don't think I'm hungry." Sherlock cast an apologetic look at John. "Could we just go to the theater? Catch an earlier showing of the movie?"

Disappointed, John shrugged at Greg and sighed. "Um. Sure... maybe you could just drop us off, Greg? We'll do dinner another time?"

The ride to the theater was intensely uncomfortable. Molly tried to make small talk, but gave up after only receiving grunts from the three men. Sally sulked at the evening being ruined and made a few pointed comments at Sherlock, who spent the entire ride looking miserable and not saying a word.

Once again, John had to run to catch up with Sherlock as he practically jogged into the theater. It was late, so there weren't many people around. But there was still time to catch one last showing of the movie they'd originally intended to see after closing time.

"Sherlock!" John panted, snatching at Sherlock's shirt sleeves. "Slow down, would you?"

Stopping abruptly, Sherlock turned to face John. It was only then that John saw the unshed tears and the naked pain on Sherlock's face.

"What is it? For God's sake, Sherlock... what?"

"Victor...." Sherlock choked on his name, covered his mouth, and turned his head for a second, before trying again. "Victor's been diagnosed with HIV."

For the second time that day, John's stomach threatened to release its contents all over the floor. He felt dizzy and his skin went clammy. "W-what?" He whispered.

"Just recently... he hadn't been feeling well for awhile. The diagnosis happened about a month or so ago. That's why he'd been calling Mycroft."

"But.. what does it have to do with you?"

"Oh, John. Are you really that stupid?" Sherlock snapped, then softened. "Sorry. Didn't mean that. He told me because the doctors don't really know how long he's had it. What with the drugs and...unprotected sex."

Another dizzy wave hit John and he stumbled back. He rested his hands on his knees and blew out a breath. "So...you...."

"I need to get tested." Sherlock said in a clipped voice. "As do you. And until we know...we should probably not...."

"Yeah. I get it." John straightened, his legs still feeling as though they might go out from under him. "But surely... it's been so long...."

"It can take awhile to show up as symptomatic." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Right."

"John." Sherlock's voice was laced with agony. "I am so sorry. If I had known...."

John shook his head once and held up a hand, silencing Sherlock. "Don't. Just... don't."

Sherlock blinked for a few beats. "Okay." He bit his lip and looked around. "Do you still want to be here?"

A bitter laugh escaped John's lips.

"We don't have to...." Sherlock started.

"I can't go home right now, Sherlock." John snapped. "Not when I just found out."

Sherlock nodded, going silent.

"C'mon. Let's get the tickets. I still have to do the review, anyway." John grumbled. He headed for the kiosk, Sherlock trailing behind him.

They watched the movie in complete silence, separated by a single movie theater seat.

***

Sherlock counted the seconds as the nurse inserted a needle into his vein and withdrew his blood. He closed his eyes, memories flashing with nights of shooting himself up with drugs, the world going hazy and soft around the edges. Tumbling into bed with Victor, feeling nothing and everything all at once.

"All right, Mr. Holmes. You're done." The nurse eyed him sharply. "You can expect your results in 1-2 weeks. Until then, you should probably avoid...."

"I know." Sherlock snapped, rolling the sleeve of his shirt back down. "Thanks."

The nurse tutted softly and bustled away, casting one last accusatory glare at him. Feeling inordinately small, Sherlock left the doctor's office. John was getting tested today, too. He imagined John's blood, hot and full of life, getting stuck in a vial and sent to a lab. What if Sherlock had destroyed everything he found good and right in the world? What if he'd condemned them both to a horrible, painful death?

The tears that he'd been unable to shed for the last couple of days finally fell down his cheeks as he strode down the walk, headed back to do his shift at the theater.

 

> Review: _Irreconcilable Differences_ by John H. Watson
> 
> Starring some of the more up-and-coming actors of the 1980s, this film  
>  tackles a thoroughly modern issue that one doesn't often see on the  
>  big screen. Though billed as a comedy-drama, this movie definitely has  
>  some hard-hitting moments that will make viewers think. While it's  
>  not the usual fun-filled fare that one likes to take in on a movie  
>  night out, I feel this is a worthy, important movie that should  
>  garner much praise - and possibly a few awards.
> 
>  
> 
> Rating: 3.5 out of 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of how HIV and AIDS were treated during the 1980s comes purely from watching movies and a bit of googling. Please forgive me for any glaring errors in how I treated the subject; I beg that my readers might suspend disbelief a little and overlook any mistakes.


	9. The Terminator, 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight, a reconciliation, the diagnosis comes in, and then... plot twist.

"Oi... you going in to work today?"

Greg's foot prodded Sherlock's side from his spot on the living room floor. Sherlock, eyes sleep blurred, mouth drawn down in a moue of discontent, rolled over in his sleeping bag to stare up at Greg.

"I hadn't thought about it yet."

Greg huffed in annoyance. "Look, I know you're going through something with John. I wish you'd just tell me what it was so I could help?"

Sherlock sat up and curled his knees to his chest, clasping his hands around them. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, I know you don't. You've said as much for almost two weeks. But this isn't really working out...."

"Sally's unhappy?"

"It's not _just_ that...." Greg's face flushed with embarrassment.

Sherlock stared hard at his feet, trying not to get upset. "I'll get out of your place as soon as possible, Greg. I just... I need a couple of days longer? Is that possible?"

Greg grimaced and ran a finger through his hair. "Yeah, yeah...of course. Look... I'll talk to Sally. I just worry about you, too, y'know? Are you okay?"

A smirk flashed over Sherlock's face. "Compared to what?"

***

John sat at his desk in the newspaper office, twisting a torn bit of paper and staring distractedly at nothing. His mind crowded with thoughts, worries. A sheet of paper in his typewriter contained a few words that had been crossed out; he couldn't seem to focus on anything long enough to string together a coherent sentence.

"Hey, John!" Mike rapped his fist against John's desk as he drew up beside it. "Haven't seen you in ages! How's life?"

John quirked his head to the side a bit and tried to force a smile. "Hanging in there, Mike."

"Haven't seen you with that tall guy recently... I thought you two were always together?" Mike asked hesitantly.

A combination of rage and sadness pushed at the back of John's throat. He sniffed once and tried to blink it away. "We're... sort of taking a break from each other."

"Huh." Mike stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at his shoes. "You two seemed to make each other pretty happy."

"Yeah, I thought so. Things happen."

"Well, if you want to talk about it...?"

"I don't, Mike."

"Fair enough. Catch you later? Maybe we could meet up for drinks sometime soon?"

"Sure. Sounds good."

John's clipped good-bye sent Mike scurrying away. John tipped his head back, ruffled his hair, and groaned to himself, "God, I'm a dick."

Checking his watch, John tore the paper from his typewriter and wadded it up. He gathered his bag and left, heading for his shift at the diner.

***

"If you're going to stare at me like that, I'm going to leave and you can work this shift by yourself." John snapped at Molly, whose eyes bored into him intently, a small wrinkle between her eyes betraying her worry.

"I just don't get it." She said while stuffing packets of sugar in their holders.

"And I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

"You love each other."

"It's complicated, Molly." John desperately wished a customer would walk in and cut their conversation short.

"I'm not stupid, you know. I know it's complicated and I know you two weren't exactly the social norm. But... John, he looked at you like you were his sun and stars. Like you could do no wrong. And excuse me for saying it, but you looked at him the same way. What could possibly have changed so quickly?"

John licked his lips, fumbling in his mind for an answer that would stop all the questions from everyone. "I'm exhausted, Molly. I'm so tired of hiding from everyone and I'm tired of not feeling happy about myself. Things change... people change. Surely you understand that?"

"Oh, I understand." Molly's voice grew sharp. "But I also understand that when you love someone deeply, you try to work it out. I don't know what's going on with you and Sherlock, but I do know that he is hurting something fierce and your silent treatment isn't helping."

John looked at her in surprise. "You've...seen him?"

"He's staying at Greg's. On his _floor_ , John."

A wash of guilt dissolved the lump in John's throat. He felt his face warm with shame and regret. "I...didn't know that." He whispered.

"Well, you wouldn't. You haven't spoken with him in almost two weeks."

They both fell silent, Molly continuing her prep for the dinner crowd and John fighting against the tidal wave of emotions that were roiling in his brain.

***

Sherlock, having finished his shift at the theater and waved Greg off to a date with Molly, walked slowly back to Greg and Sally's place. Sally had decided to go visit her sister for a few days, giving Sherlock some time to figure out where he wanted to go. The night was cool and crisp; a few dry leaves skittered across his path, scraping against the sidewalk. Sherlock counted his steps while he walked - anything to keep his mind from straying to more serious thoughts.

As he drew up to Greg's apartment, a shadowy figure detached itself from the wall and stepped forward. John, hair slightly too long and looking windswept, hands stuffed into the pockets of a brown corduroy jacket, offered a sad half-smile.

"Hi...?" He said, his voice soft and unsure.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "John."

"Um." John scuffed one foot on the sidewalk. "Thought maybe we could talk?"

The desperate longing and self loathing of the past two weeks boiled up inside Sherlock and transformed into a white-hot anger. "Oh. So _now_ you want to talk. Now you have time for me, yeah? Well, I'm not sure I want to listen."

He made a move to brush past John. John reached out to grab his arm, but pulled back sharply before he made contact.

"What's the matter, John?" Sherlock's face was hot and he knew it must be blotchy red. "Can't even bring yourself to touch me? Might end up _diseased_?"

"Now, that's not fair!" John protested.

"Fair? Fair?" Sherlock's voice ratcheted up a note. "Was it fair to drop me completely without anything? Not even a good-bye? Was it fair that I didn't have anywhere to go but here?"

His voice caught in his throat and angry tears spilled over onto his cheeks. "Was it fair to take yourself from me? To deny me any of yourself? Punish me for something beyond my control?" Sherlock covered his mouth with a shaking hand, his tears flowing freely.

John, a mixture of discomfort and frustration on his face, shoved his hands back into his pockets. "I... don't know how to deal with this, Sherlock. Don't know how to feel. This is really difficult for me."

"It's not exactly a walk in the park for me!"

"I know. I know. I'm just...conflicted."

"You've been conflicted since day one, John Watson." Sherlock spat. "It's time to make a decision! Are you with me, even through the hard times, or are you so ashamed of who you are inside, you're willing to throw us away just like that?"

"Sherlock... we _both_ might be handed a death sentence when those blood tests come back. That's not something to be conflicted about?"

"The John Watson I loved wouldn't have left me at the first sign of trouble."

"You--" John stepped closer to Sherlock, jabbing a finger at his chest, "--got us into this, Sherlock, might I remind you?"

If John had hit Sherlock, it would have hurt less. Sherlock drew back, face going pale, bile rising in the back of his throat. "I am sorry, John." Each word dripped like acid from his lips. "I am _so_ sorry that I did not consult you when I was shooting up every day, trying to escape my misery in some small way. And I am sorry that I fell in love with a flawed man who was the worst thing for me. I am so sorry I don't live up to your high standards. Because of course, _you_ would never make a bad choice in your life, would you?"

John's anger fled from him, his whole self deflating. "Sherlock...." His eyes filled with tears and he held up his hands in supplication. "I didn't mean that. I swear, I didn't."

Sherlock swiped at the tears on his cheeks and sucked in his lower lip. "Don't you think it's eating me up inside, knowing my fucked up past might kill the only good thing I have in this world?"

John narrowed the gap between them and, for the first time in nearly two weeks, reached out and rested his palms on Sherlock's arms, gently rubbing up and down in comfort. "I'm scared, Sherlock."

"I am, too. Terrified, in fact."

"I didn't know how to cope."

"We could have tried to cope together."

"I know. I'm a stupid idiot. Rocks for brains."

Sherlock allowed a small smile to ghost around his lips. "Completely obtuse."

John nodded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's body and resting his head on his chest. "Ignorant, dull-witted, and simple-minded. Won't you take pity on me and forgive me?"

He drew back once more and looked Sherlock in the eyes. "I am sorry, Sherlock. I fucked up beyond all reason and you _should_ kick me to the curb. But I am a better man with you and I am asking you for forgiveness. I am begging you to let me try again."

Sherlock reached up to cup John's face. "Daft fool. I feel like I can't breathe without you."

"So...that means I'm forgiven?" John tried a puppy-dog expression on his face, causing Sherlock to laugh shakily.

"It means...I can't live without you, John Watson. Yes, I forgive you."

John leaned up and brushed his lips over Sherlock's cheek. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't." Laughed Sherlock. "So... what now?"

"Come home? My bedroom seems lonely without you."

"Is that wise, given we haven't found anything out, either way?"

John tilted his head back to look at the stars. "I don't care anymore. I really don't. I want a life with you in it, Sherlock. And if that means...." His voice broke off and he swallowed hard. "...if it means one or both of us has to deal with an... illness... so be it."

"I'll never forgive myself if I've made you sick." Sherlock whispered.

John caught Sherlock's hand in his and brought it up to his mouth, kissing the fingertips. "The past can't be rewritten. And we can't foretell the future. All we've got is today. Please come home?"

Sherlock sighed, the touch of John's lips on his hands bringing a calm to his mind that he hadn't felt since their fight. "Of course. Yes, let's go home."

They gathered Sherlock's things from Greg's apartment and Sherlock left a hastily scrawled note for his friend. Together, he and John Watson headed for home, quietly filling each other in on what they had missed in the last couple of weeks.

***

The phone call came a couple days later. The results were in, appointments were scheduled for both of them.

Sherlock's fingers wouldn't still. They tapped the chair, ran through his hair, picked at his skin. John reached over and caught a hand in his.

"It will be okay."

"You can't know that."

"Whatever happens, it will be okay." He insisted.

Feet tapping, Sherlock allowed his hand to remain in John's. A myriad thoughts raced through his mind. His brother's insistence that he would end up in the gutter if he continued his behavior. Victor's sly smiles every time they kissed. John... always John. Visions of what living with HIV might entail. All Sherlock knew were the horror stories. Back to John. His lovely face... his smile... the way his voice---

"Sherlock Holmes?" A nurse peeked into the waiting room, consulting a chart. She pinned Sherlock with a dismissive glance. "The doctor will see you now."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to pull his hand from John's.

"I'll see you in a bit." John said. "Don't worry, okay?"

Too sick with nerves to answer, Sherlock followed the nurse through the door into the examination area.

***

Sherlock found John outside the clinic, sitting on a nearby bench. His hands were clasped and his face was turned down, seriously studying the sidewalk beneath his feet. Sherlock's heart did a funny flutter and settled in his stomach. He was torn between rushing to John and running away. But knowing he had nowhere to run, he instead walked to the bench and sad beside John. Silently, John took Sherlock's hand and rubbed his thumb over the well-manicured nails.

"I'm clean." John said softly.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose. "Seriously?"

John turned a face full of relief, his shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, and nodded. "Clean bill of health. Doctor wants me to be tested again in six months just in case. Gave me a lecture about being safe and judged the hell out of me the entire time. But I'm clean."

The hollow hole of guilt that had formed in Sherlock's stomach two weeks earlier and had grown larger with every day that passed suddenly filled up with a euphoric wave of relief. "Oh...." He swayed a little, feeling dizzy with emotion.

"Hey, don't faint on me!" John giggled, steadying Sherlock with his hands. "You haven't told me your results?"

Sherlock stared into John's kind eyes for a beat, then smiled. "Clean, too."

John whooped and hugged Sherlock to him. "Really? Truly?"

"Truly." Sherlock felt tears prickling his eyes again, but willed them away. He had cried enough in the last few days. "I got the same lecture from the doctor, the same instruction to re-test in 6 months. But my time with Victor was so long ago... if I was sick, it probably would have showed up on this test."

John pressed a hand to his mouth, his eyes sparkling. "We should celebrate."

"What would you suggest?"

"I know what I _want_ to do!"

Sherlock made a face. "So soon? Aren't you...worried?"

"I have decided," John declared. "That I worry too much. And I should stop worrying and start showing you how much I love you. We'll be careful, I promise. But all I want to do is take you home, feed you dinner, and then kiss every inch of your skin."

"Every inch?" Sherlock teased, blushing hotly.

" _Every_ inch."

They both dissolved into boyish giggles, then aimed themselves for home and a night of celebration.  
.  
***

John was about to make good on his promise. Sherlock, stretched out on John's rumpled bed, his body naked, gasped and dug his hands into the sheets as John laved his tongue over his inner thigh, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's flushed and straining cock. With his other hand, he rubbed Sherlock's nipple, teasing it to attention. Sherlock pressed a fist to his mouth, stifling a groan as John began to stroke him steadily.

"John..." Sherlock gasped, waves of lust rushing over him. "Protection... we promised...."

"I've got something here." John broke off his stroking and waved a box of condoms in the air. "Don't worry."

John returned to his ministrations and Sherlock, mind lost to the desire he felt, arched his back and enjoyed the sensations flowing through his body.

Without warning, the door opened and Rose Watson bustled in, a laundry basket on her hip. "Johnny, I thought I'd bring up your....oh!"

The laundry basket hit the floor; Rose immediately whipped around, turning her back to John and Sherlock, a hand reaching up to cover her eyes.

John scrambled to his feet, shielding his erection with his hands, his face ashen. Sherlock yelped and grabbed a sheet to cover himself.

"I'm sorry, I should have knocked." The words tumbled double-time from Rose's lips. "I'm going downstairs. John, can I talk to you?"

"Um. Right. Yeah, of course." John muttered, his eyes moving from his mother to Sherlock. "Be right there?"

Rose nodded and walked out the door, shutting it firmly.

"Shit." John spat. "This isn't good."

"Wh-what are you going to do?" Sherlock, desire fleeing his body completely, stared at John with worried eyes.

John blew out a breath. "Well. I guess I'm going to get dressed and go talk to my mother about why she walked in on me going down on another man."

"Should I go with you?"

John laughed bitterly. "No... no, I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Will she understand?"

John cast a look of sorrow at Sherlock. "I don't know. I just... don't know."

***

The house was silent and dark when Sherlock tentatively made his way downstairs. Hours had ticked by agonizingly slowly while he had sat in John's bedroom, unable to concentrate on anything. Not able to take anymore waiting, he dressed and went downstairs to look for John.

He found him in the kitchen, slumped in a chair. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the table.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked softly, pointing to the glass.

John blew out a shaky breath, his eyes somewhere far away. "I think it's whiskey. Found a bottle hidden behind the cleaners under the kitchen sink. Must be part of Harry's stash."

He picked up the glass and sipped at it, pulling a face as the burning alcohol hit his throat.

Sherlock kneeled by John's side, looking into his eyes, trying to get John to focus on him. "What happened? Is your mom upset about... us?"

John laughed and Sherlock shivered at the thread of danger behind that laugh. "She didn't really want to talk about us, actually."

"What does that mean?" Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.

"She's been trying to pull me aside to talk to me for several weeks now." John rubbed the back of his neck. "Meant to talk to Harry and me both, but I think her...discovery... accelerated things a little."

"I don't understand."

"I'm making a mess of this." John rubbed his eyes. "She didn't bring me down here to talk about us. She brought me down here to tell me that she has cancer."

Sherlock felt the floor drop out from beneath him and he clutched at John's shoulder, trying to steady himself. "C-cancer?"

"I guess she's been feeling pretty lousy lately. Went into the doctor to see why. It's stage 4 and the doctor isn't very optimistic about treatment."

"I'm...so sorry, John. What is she going to do?"

Silence stretched as John sipped again at his drink. "She's been in touch with some of her family back east. They aren't on the best of terms, but she wants to go stay with an aunt she used to be close with. Get any treatment she decides upon there."

Sherlock nodded, trying to understand. "Okay...."

"She wants me to go with her. Harry and me, specifically. She's asked me to take a break from school."

Sherlock felt like he had just been punched in the stomach. "Oh."

John turned his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "I'm going to go with her, Sherlock."

"Oh."

"It's the least I can do... if... if she's going to d--" John's voice broke and he heaved one desperate sob. "If she's not going to make it through this."

Sherlock suddenly felt ashamed at his reaction. "Of course you should go. Of course. I'll... stay here and wait for you? Or... do you want me to go, too?"

John turned his face away again, laughing softly. "I'm not good for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock jerked back, the words a slap. "W-what?"

John shook his head, his eyes turning hard and flinty. "I thought I could make it work, but every corner we turn, there's another sign that says we're going the wrong way. I'm not good for you, and you aren't good for me."

"I don't understand why you're saying this." Sherlock stood, paced the kitchen floor. "We just barely got over our last fight!"

"And that should say something to you, shouldn't it?" John's voice was hollow, his jaw determined. "I'm going with my mother. And you... need to go your own way."

"John, _I will wait for you._ This doesn't have to end!" Sherlock tried but failed to keep the note of desperation from his voice. "I love you!"

John gritted his teeth and straightened his back. A strange light lit his eyes as he looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I don't have time for you anymore, Sherlock. I want you to leave. What we've done is... wrong. And I can't carry on with it anymore."

Sherlock physically stumbled back, John's words hitting him with blow after blow. "You don't mean any of that!"

John struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from the effect of the drink. "I mean it, Sherlock. Go get your things, go... I don't care where you go. Go stay with Greg, go back to the theater, _I. Don't. Care._ "

The words stole Sherlock's breath from his chest. He felt tears spill down his cheeks as he tried to suck in oxygen. "You promised!" His voice was strained, almost squeaking with pain. "You promised I wouldn't drive you away! You said you loved me! You said you weren't ashamed of us!"

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. "I said a lot of things. You shouldn't trust me, Sherlock. I lied. Please get your things and leave."

With those final words, John turned and went out into the backyard, slamming the door after him and leaving Sherlock behind, his chest heaving with sobs and his world crumbling around him.

Our regular reviewer has stepped down to take a sabbatical. This paper  
welcomes new reviewer, James Moriarty. Please direct all questions and comments to the editor using the contact information on page 13.

> Review: The Terminator by James Moriarty
> 
> The Terminator is an instant classic full of sci-fi action and  
>  adventure. This film is original, gritty, and beneath all the  
>  fighting and explosions is a thoughtful script combining  
>  strong story-telling and suspense. Clever dialogue and a cast  
>  of talented actors makes this film one of the best of 1984.
> 
>  
> 
> Rating: 5 out of 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. When I started this story, it had a different trajectory. Then one night, the characters took on a life of their own and I realized that this was the path I was heading down.
> 
> Second: I need to assure all of you on this ride that **there will be a happy ending**. I won't spoil details and I'm not saying there aren't some rough waters ahead, but ultimately, there will be a happy ending. I promise. (And unlike John, I actually do keep my promises.)
> 
> Third: There is no third point, really. Though I do want to thank everyone who has read the story so far. I hope you will keep faith in me and continue reading as I really do think this story is a worthwhile one to tell. <3


	10. 1984-1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am so sorry.
> 
> 2) Please read the tags even though they're spoilery for added trigger warnings as this chapter is a bit grim.
> 
> 3) Remember: happy ending.

_John's steps fell heavy as he stumped down the steps and went to the kitchen where his mother sat, back ramrod straight, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, and eyes fixed to a spot on the wall opposite._

_"I...uh...." Face flaming, John brushed a hand through his hair, his other hand stuffed in his pocket as he shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry you walked in on that."_

_"Could you sit down?" Rose's voice was tight._

_John scraped a chair over the floor and sat, his muscles coiling tensely as he waited for what was to come._

_Rose's hands fluttered over her face, as if her fingers were unsure of where to light. "How long?"_

_John fisted his hands in his hair and stared at the table. "We met about eight months ago."_

_"I see."_

_"I love him, ma."_

_Rose's eyes met John's and flashed angrily. "You love him? You love him? Just like you loved that Sholto boy in school? The one who almost ruined our lives? When he accused you, I thought your father would die from the stress. I still wonder if that's why...."_

_John flinched back as though he had been slapped. "It's not like that! It's nothing at all like that!"_

_"I'll tell you what it's like, John Hamish Watson." Rose's voice was hard as steel. "It's sick, is what it is. It's a perversion. You should be ashamed of yourself, putting us through this again. I'm glad your father isn't here to see it happen."_

_John felt waves of shame wash over him and he gulped air like a man drowning. "I can't change who I am!"_

_"I don't believe that." Rose snapped. "I believe you can choose to be a good man, Johnny. And what you were doing up there with... him... that wasn't good."_

_"How can you say that, ma? How can you say something that feels so right isn't good?"_

_Rose pinned him again with a glare and they stared at each other in silence as the minutes ticked by. "I didn't bring you down here to argue this, Johnny. I have tried to talk to you alone for months and you have been too busy for me. Now I know what you've been busy doing."_

_John set his jaw and looked at a point just beyond his mother's face. His insides roiled with a mixture of shame, guilt, remorse, and anger._

_"I haven't talked to your sister about this yet because I'm going to need your support." Rose's voice softened a little as she continued to talk. "A couple of months ago, I started feeling run down and sick. I couldn't figure out what was wrong, so I went to my doctor."_

_All sound dimmed as John focused on his mother's voice, not quite comprehending the words he heard her saying._

_"I have cancer, Johnny. Stage four, which is pretty bad. They don't know if treatment will help or not, but I'm going to try."_

_John covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes burning with tears._

_"I want to go home." Rose said, her voice wistful. "I have an aunt back east who I've talked to on the phone with. She and I used to be terribly close and it's been an incredible support to have her help me through this. She wants me to come stay with her while I get treatment and then... well, we'll see, won't we?"_

_Rose offered a quavering smile to John and reached out to take his hand in hers, rubbing her fingers along his knuckles. "Johnny... I know this is a lot to ask, but I want you to come with me. Your sister, too... but we'll have to have that conversation later. I want both my children with me while I go through this and I know that sounds selfish, but I think right now I deserve to be a little selfish?"_

_At first, John's voice wouldn't work. He cleared his throat, swallowing tears, then finally summoned words. "Uh... yeah. Of course. I'll take some time off school and we'll work something out. Of course."_

_"I knew I could count on you. And this whole business with your friend...." The word fell from her lips with disdain, laden with hidden meaning. "...it's over, right?"_

_Meeting her stern gaze with stricken eyes, John swallowed. "But...."_

_"No, Johnny. You put yourself in incredible danger being with someone like that. I'm a nurse, I've seen what's happening to people who... like those sorts of things."_

_At this, John felt a new wave of shame flush his face._

_"I will not lose my son to something so perverted. This is over and you will find whatever strength you have to move on from this and lead a normal life. Are we clear?"_

_"Y-yes, ma'am." All of John's hopes and dreams broke in that instant as he realized he couldn't refuse his mother's request, not when she was so sick._

_Rose patted John's hands and moved to stand up. "I knew you'd be my good man, Johnny. We'll get through this... as a family."_

_"Right. A family." John felt numb._

_Rose checked her watch. "I've got to go in for my shift. I'm telling my boss today that I'm leaving. We'll talk with Harry tomorrow, okay?"_

_John nodded and his mother gathered her things and left. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, John rose and went to the kitchen sink. Opening the cupboard under the sink, he rummaged in the very back until his hands closed on the thin neck of a bottle of something that belonged to his sister. Pulling out the bottle of whiskey, John fetched a glass and began to pour._

***

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Why, Sally? What good would it do?"

"Well, maybe it would get him off the couch!"

"He's hurting."

"But how long can he stay here and not contribute anything? He's got no job, he barely goes to classes, and he mopes around the house all day!"

"Sally, have some compassion for God's sake."

"I just think if you told him there was a 'sold' sign on the Watsons' house, he might start to move past all that."

"Y'know, for someone who prides herself on being so smart, you sure are stupid when it comes to relationships."

"Do you want me to tell him?"

"If you do, I'll make sure they never find your body."

"Fine. You don't have to get snippy with me."

***

**_Christmas, 1984_ **

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_My new therapist told me I should write my feelings down in a journal. But I tried that and it just felt stupid, so I thought I'd write to you. Even though you'll never see these letters, I thought it would feel good to talk to you again, to pretend that you're on the other side of this paper, reading my words._ **

**_I miss you._ **

**_I miss you so much it makes my bones ache._ **

**_I promised ma I would go to a therapist to sort out my feelings about you and about men in general. I think she wants me to be "fixed". That this therapist will make me want to date a woman._ **

**_I don't think there's anyone who could make me forget how much I love you._ **

**_I meant what I said, though. I'm not good for you. I ruin everything I touch... my family, you, my life. How could I ask you to stay with someone who does that? It's better that we aren't together. You'll find someone who will be better for you and I... well, I'll be alone. It's not so bad, you know. I have the memories of us together to help me get through the loneliness._ **

**_My mom's treatment started a month ago. Once a week radiation treatments. She's awfully sick from them, but my aunt takes care of a lot of that. Honestly, I think ma asked us to come with her so she could get Harry away from the drinking and me away from you._ **

**_There's a local theater here. Not as nice as your theater, though. I saw Beverly Hills Cop last week; you would have loved it! I wish we could have seen it together._ **

**_Do you watch movies without me?_ **

**_All my love,  
John._ **

***

"Mr. Holmes, please take a seat."

"You wanted to see me?"

"It's come to my attention that you're struggling right now. Your grades have dropped, you've missed classes. Frankly, I don't see you passing this term."

"Oh."

"Is there something going on that you'd like to talk about?"

"No, I've just been...busy."

"You do realize that you could lose your scholarships if you don't bring your grades up?"

"Right."

"...."

"I appreciate the concern, sir. Are we finished?"

"I guess we are, if you don't have anything else to say."

***

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Exactly one year ago, we met. It seems like longer, to be honest, but the memory is so clear. I can't hear 'Footloose' on the radio and not think of you. Do you still think about me?_ **

**_Ma's not getting better. The treatments are hard on her. She's lost all her hair and she's so thin. She looks like the pictures of concentration camp victims I remember from my school books. I don't think she's going to get better, Sherlock. Harry's not coping very well with it, either. She finds ways to go out and drink and she's made friends with some of the worst kinds of people here. I don't know what to do - I feel so lost and helpless all the time._ **

**_My therapist asked me what I wanted out of our sessions. At least she doesn't buy into the shit about making me 'get better'. She talks to me a little about sexuality and the different spectrums. In our last session, when she asked me about what I wanted? She showed me a picture of her girlfriend._ **

**_I don't know what I want. I feel ashamed of who I am, but every night I fall asleep with your face in my mind. I can't get over you and I'm not sure I even want to._ **

**_I'm going to the movies tomorrow, to celebrate our 'anniversary'. The theater is my safe space. I can forget everything for two hours while I watch someone else's story. I'm seeing The Breakfast Club tomorrow and I think I'll pretend you're sitting beside me, holding my hand._ **

**_All my love,  
John_ **

***

"Hi, Sherlock!"

"Molly."

"I just came by to check in on you. Greg said you'd be at home all day."

"How _does_ he deduce these things?"

"Stop... you know he just worries about you. Want to come to dinner with us tonight at the diner?"

"No."

"C'mon. We miss you! Even Anderson was asking where you'd been."

"I'm not in the mood, Molly."

"You have to come back to us sometime, you know. You can't just waste your life on the couch because of him."

"Don't."

"No, let me finish! I know you loved John, but...."

"Don't you dare say his name in that tone to me! Just...don't."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Will you please just think about coming out with us soon?"

"Will it make you go away?"

"...if that's what you want."

"Then I will think about it."

"Okay... 'bye, Sherlock."

***

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Ella (that's my therapist) invited me over for dinner with her and her girlfriend the other night. I think she sees I'm struggling to think of myself as any sort of normal and I think she might disapprove of ma's attitude about this sort of thing. Her girlfriend is nice - she's a teacher. They both have to be pretty careful about being seen together in public, but they're ridiculously happy together._ **

**_I know she only meant to help, but all I could think about was how it would be to have that kind of life with you._ **

**_I walked home by myself afterwards and I couldn't stop crying. I had to stand outside my aunt's house for ten minutes until I was all cried out._ **

**_I miss you. I miss you. I miss you._ **

**_I'm supposed to be getting better, forgetting about you, but all I can see when I close my eyes is your face the last time I saw you._ **

**_Where are you right now? If I go outside and look up at the stars, are you looking at them, too?_ **

**_Ma has a doctor's appointment next week. I don't think the treatment worked, so they're going to decide what to do next. I'm scared, Sherlock. Harry's never here and my aunt won't let me help and I'm scared. I don't know what to do and I feel so useless._ **

**_I haven't even been to the movie theater for awhile. Nothing good is playing and it's just not the same without you. Nothing's the same without you._ **

**_All my love,  
John_ **

***

"Hello?"

"Hello, is anyone there?"

"I can hear you breathing, is there someone there?"

"John, is that you? Did you need someone to pick you up from your appointment?"

:::Click:::

***

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Yesterday I saw a movie called Ladyhawke. It was this fantasy where a man and a woman who are deeply in love get cursed to be apart forever. By day the woman is a hawk and the man is human, and by night the man is a wolf and the woman is human. And only in the time when it is neither day or night do they ever get a glimpse of themselves as human._ **

**_I would give my life if I could have a split-second glimpse of your face, your smile._ **

**_My mother has decided to give up treatment and spend however long she has left with her family. She's been assigned a hospice care-worker and today they brought a hospital bed for her room. She sleeps a lot, but when she's awake, I try to spend time with her. Her brain is getting muddled easily these days. Sometimes she'll stop in the middle of a sentence and not remember what she saying. Harry's even been around more and is trying not to drink as much. Who knows how long that will last?_ **

**_One thing that I have learned from Ella is that I am strong. I have stayed strong even though I have lost everyone I care about. I will survive losing my mother. But for now, my days are devoted to saying good-bye to her. Afterwards? I don't know what comes after, I really don't. I know my mother hopes that I will continue trying to be 'normal' and find a wife, have some kids._ **

**_Why does 'normal' sound worse than dying?_ **

**_All my love,  
John_ **

***

"Hey, buddy. You need something?"

"I...uh...."

"Don't flash the cash out here! C'mon...in the alley."

"I just need a fix. Just...."

"Not so loud! I'll fix you up, no problem. C'mon."

***

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_The hospice nurses come every day and help my aunt with my mom's care. She can't take herself to the bathroom anymore, so they've put in a catheter and give her sponge baths. She's barely eating. My aunt makes all sorts of desserts to try to entice her, but most of the food goes to waste. Though I eat some of it - I've put on a few pounds because of that very reason. So I've started going for a run when I'm not needed. Summer's almost here and it's nice to be out in the sun._ **

**_At my last session, Ella again asked me what I wanted. She also asked me who I am. I couldn't give her an answer._ **

**_I don't get to the movies much, with ma so sick. But The Goonies is starting next weekend and I thought I'd go then if Harry's willing to sit with ma for a few hours. I need that safe place where I can empty my mind._ **

**_If you were here, would you sit beside me and stroke my hair? I think I'd like that._ **

**_Are you out there, thinking of me as much as I'm thinking of you? I hope not. I can't stand to think about how much I hurt you. I hope you've forgotten me._ **

**_All my love,  
John_ **

***

"Did you move my things? I've told you a hundred times not to move my things!"

"Don't you dare yell at me, Sherlock Holmes! You are freeloading off Greg and me and you have no right to yell at me when I've just tried to clean up some of the mess around here!"

"I was working on a project and now it's all hopelessly scrambled!"

"Your 'project' looked like gibberish. Why don't you work on getting a job and getting out of here?"

"You want me to leave? Does Greg want me to leave? I'll go... I don't need to stay where I'm not wanted!"

"Oh, Sherlock, stop playing the victim. Isn't it time to move on?"

:::Door opens:::

"Hey... what's going on?"

"Greg! I was just...."

"Everything okay, Sherlock?"

"Ask her."

"Sally? Oh, for God's sake. I asked you not to do anything to upset him!"

"I'm reaching my breaking point here, Greg. He's got to stop being like this."

"I think you're both forgetting I'm in the room?"

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

"Sally!"

***

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Do you know how long it takes someone to die? It turns out it's a really long time. My mom is hardly ever awake now, but her heart still keeps beating, her lungs keep breathing. Her body keeps fighting, even though she's ready to go. How is that fair?_ **

**_I go to the movies a lot now. My aunt says it's for the best if I don't just hang around and worry. Harry's back to partying with her friends - I think she just can't handle the pressure of watching our mother waste away to nothing. So I go to the movies every weekend and hope that while I'm in the dark theater, my mom will die. Does that make me a horrible person? So many other things do, so why not that, too? I've watched so many movies this summer, but I'm not sure I could tell you about any of them. I think I liked Back to the Future the most - I've seen that one at least five times. You'd probably point out all the things they got wrong with the time travel, but I liked it. After I saw it, I came home and started writing a script. Just a little idea I have in my head and Ella's been telling me I should try to be creative again._ **

**_Ella also says I should accept who I am and stop being ashamed of my sexuality. She's put me in touch with a support group for gays and lesbians and I'm thinking about going._ **

**_I miss you. I miss you. I miss you._ **

**_All my love,  
John _ **

***

"You look worried."

"Just thinking about Sherlock again."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"I don't know, Molly. He's a hollow shell of himself. Walks around looking like a ghost, watches a lot of crap television, barely eats, never sleeps. He's working on some sort of photography project now, but it doesn't seem to calm him down."

"Do you think we should contact his family?"

"God, no. That'd be the worst idea ever! They'd just use it as an opportunity to brainwash him into being their pet again."

"Do you think we should call John?"

"I...don't know. That might make it worse, too. We don't even know what John's doing now. And after he did that to Sherlock...."

"I know, I know. Forget I said anything. What're we going to do, then?"

"I wish I knew, Molly. I really wish I knew."

***

_**Dear Sherlock,** _

_**My mom died last night. I was there with her - so was Harry. We knew it was getting close. There's a way that a person who's dying starts to breathe, a rattling in the lungs that tells you it won't be long. I sat beside her and held her hand and told her all the things I wish I had told her when she was awake.** _

_**I told my mom about you. About your beautiful blue eyes and you soft hair. About how it felt to kiss every inch of you and how you filled my soul with happiness. I told her that I taught you how to look at the stars, just like dad did with me. I told her about how she would have loved you just as much as I did, if she'd just given you the chance.** _

_**And I told her that I couldn't change, no matter how much she wanted it. I'd like to think that, in death, she forgave me. Love, in any form, is beautiful, isn't it? Ella has made me see that I am who I am. And who I am is a man in love, eternally, with Sherlock Holmes. My life may go on without you, Sherlock, but a life without you has no color and I don't want to live that way.** _

_**Almost a year has gone by since I last saw you and I wonder if you've moved on? I wonder if you sit in a movie theater with another man, someone who won't treat you as poorly as I did? I wonder if you might give someone like me a second chance?** _

_**I have to get through the funeral next week and then I promised my aunt I would stay long enough to help her with a few things. And I should probably figure out how to deal with Harry, though I'm starting to think she is a lost cause.** _

_**After that? Well, I want to go back to school and finish what I started. But more importantly, I want to find you and I want to show you how sorry I am for the way I acted. I want to show you every day for the rest of your life how much I love you.** _

_**I want to wake up beside you every day until forever and look at your eyes and trace your smile with my fingertips. I want to make love to you every night until you sing my name. I want to hold your hand and never let go.** _

_**I wish you were actually reading these words, Sherlock. And I wish I knew whether you still felt the same for me as I do for you.** _

_**I'm coming back to you. Please be there for me?** _

_**All my love,  
John** _

***

Greg, arms loaded with grocery bags, fumbled open the front door and entered a silent house. "Sally?" He called. "Sherlock?"

No answer, so he trudged to the kitchen and put the groceries on the table. The house was quiet and clean. No sign of Sherlock, which was unusual.

"Sherlock? You here?" Greg called up the stairs. He glanced around for traces of Sherlock's photography project or rumpled blankets on the couch, but everything was neat and tidy.

Ascending the stairs, he tried again. "Sherlock! Are you home?"

Reaching the second floor, Greg's eyes were drawn to the cardboard box outside the bathroom door. The cardboard box with Sherlock's things packed neatly inside. An envelope rested on top with "John" scrawled across the front in ink.

"Oh, no." Greg breathed, his heart picking up double-time.

He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he approached the bathroom door and grasped the knob. Locked. He pulled back and threw his shoulders at the door. "Sherlock!" His head roared with growing panic.

It took four tries before the door jamb splintered and the bathroom door swung open. His eyes went first to the syringe laying on the floor, then to the hand dangling from the bathtub, drops of blood dripping down the pale wrist and on the tile below.

"Sherlock! Oh, Christ! Sherlock!"


	11. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock reunite.

John rubbed the back of his neck and shifted on his knees, trying to find a comfortable position. He sifted through the last of the box sitting in front of him, placing objects in piles around him. His aunt Vi worked nearby, folding linens and packing them into boxes.

"I think this one's done, Vi." John said, pushing the empty box away from him. "Any more to go through?"

"That's the last of your mother's old things." Vi replied, coming over to survey John's work. "You sure you want to give away that much stuff?"

"I've kept a few things that mean something to me. And I set aside some others for Harry if she ever comes by. Everything else? It's just stuff... ma wouldn't expect me to keep it all."

Vi patted John on the head and nodded. "You're a good egg, John, staying and helping your old aunt out."

John stretched as he got to his feet, then dusted off his jeans. "Least I could do. Didn't want to stick you with all the hard work."

Vi wiped at a smudge on John's cheek with her thumb. "Where will you go now?"

"Ah... heading home, I think. Our home, I mean. I know we sold the house, but I miss my friends and I want to finish up school, see what I can do with myself afterwards."

"I'll miss having you around. I know losing your mom was rough, but it's been awhile since I had a house full of family."

"I'm glad we got the chance to get to know you, Vi. I'll come visit... promise."

Vi ruffled his hair. "Why do I get the feeling you've got someone specific you're going back for?"

John blushed. "Well...."

"It's okay, John. I know."

John caught his aunt's eyes and quirked an eyebrow. "You...know?"

Placing a hand over his heart, Vi smiled softly. "Sometimes you just know things about the people you care about, John. I know... and I know your mom wasn't too happy. Don't think we shared the same views in life just because we're related."

Speechless, John stared at his aunt. Before he could find the right words to say, the phone in the hall rang and Vi hurried to get it. He stood in the middle of the spare room, rubbing his face and absorbing what had just happened.

"John? Someone named Greg is on the phone for you?" Vi poked her head back in the room.

A thread of anxiety laced its way through John's mind as he went out to the hall and took the phone from his aunt. "Greg?"

"John!" Greg's voice sounded strained. "Glad I was able to track you down. You didn't make it easy to get in touch with you!"

"Is something wrong? Why are you calling?"

"Look, I don't know what you're dealing with right now, but something happened and I thought you'd want to know. Sherlock...." Greg's voice trailed off.

"What? Is Sherlock...okay?" John's voice cracked, a lump of fear forming in his stomach.

Greg heaved a deep sigh over the phone line. "He tried to kill himself last night, John."

The hall dipped and swayed as John's throat filled with bile. He stumbled, caught himself on the wall, then slid down to sit on the floor. "Is...he....?"

"He's not dead." Greg reassured him. "But he almost succeeded. He shot himself up with some pretty heavy stuff, then cut his wrists. If I hadn't found him when I did...."

John wasn't sure when the tears had started falling, but his face was wet. "What...what can I do?"

Greg was silent for a beat, two beats. "Look. The last year... it hasn't been easy for him. I don't know if seeing you would make it better or not, but I just... he was happy with you, John."

A strangled whimper escaped John's throat and he clutched the phone so tight he was sure he'd leave indents in the receiver. "I was going to come home, Greg. My mom... she died. Funeral was last week and I was just helping my aunt with a few things before I left."

"I'm sorry about your mom."

"Thanks. If I come... will he see me?"

"I don't know... he's not conscious right now. He lost a lot of blood before I... found him. Now he's sedated."

"I'll fly out tomorrow. Is there anyone who could meet me, or should I take a cab?"

"Sally might be willing... or Molly. I want to stay here in case Sherlock wakes up. Hurry, won't you?"

Ending the call, John tried to stop his tears. Vi hovered at the door to the spare room.

"Everything all right? Was that a friend?"

John looked up at her, feeling lost. "I need to go home, Vi. Tomorrow, if possible. Can you help me figure out a plane ticket?"

"Of course, darling. Are you going to let Harry know you're leaving?"

John felt a headache building behind his eyes. "I don't even know where she's staying these days. I don't think I can save her, Vi."

His aunt nodded. "Sometimes you do all you can and it's still a lost cause. C'mon, sweetie. Let's go make some phone calls and get you home.

***

His wrists didn't hurt and that confused Sherlock when he woke up.

The room was fuzzy around the edges. His wrists were wrapped in gauze and an IV was inserted at his elbow, something clear dripping steadily. Soft beeps echoed from the hallway. His eyes were heavy and his mouth was dry, so dry.

"Why'm I here?" He mumbled, running a dry tongue over cracked lips.

A familiar face came into view - Greg, a worried expression on his face. "Sherlock? Hey...welcome back! What'd you say?"

Sherlock swallowed painfully, tried to clear his throat. "I'm not s'posed to be here...."

"I found you, Sherlock. I... God, I couldn't just let you die!"

"I wanted to...." Sherlock's voice grew thinner as he felt himself fading back into sleep. "You should have... you should have let me go...."

His eyes finally closed and Greg watched his friend drift back to sleep.

***

"Sally!" John tried to smile, but only achieved a slightly anxious expression. "Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem! Good to see you back!" Sally's dark curls were pulled back in a bun and the red shirt she wore contrasted nicely with her coffee-colored skin. She smiled and helped John load his bags into the trunk of her car. "Am I taking you straight to the hospital?"

John nodded, sobering. "I need to see him."

They both got into the car and Sally pulled away from the curb. "I think Sherlock would probably tell you I didn't make things easy on him this last year."

"Well, I guess we have something in common, then." John attempted a laugh.

"I really feel badly for not... taking him seriously, I guess. I just thought he should move on, get on with his life."

"If he felt anything like I did, that would be impossible." John murmured, staring at his hands. "I couldn't get him out of my head... or my heart. The entire time I was gone, all I thought about was how much I loved him."

"You think he'll be glad to see you?" Sally peeked at John from the corner of her eyes.

"I was going to ask _you_ that."

"I don't pretend to know what's going on in that head of his." Sally scoffed. "I didn't even know when we were friends."

John nodded, staying silent.

Sally sighed. "I've got some apologizing to do to him. But I think you do, too?"

"Yeah." Breathed John.

"Well... best of luck to us both, then?"

"I need all the luck I can get, Sally."

***

The hospital reminded John of his mother. He'd been in far too many hospital rooms and doctor's office over the past year; enough to last him a lifetime. His chest ached as he walked down the stark hallway, his nose burning with the smell of disinfectant. Greg waited outside one of the rooms, looking just as nervous as John.

"Is he awake?" John asked.

Greg nodded. "He came to yesterday for a bit, but went back to sleep pretty quickly. Today he's more alert, but he's not saying much. The doctor's say his injuries are fine, but they want to schedule a psych evaluation before he can go anywhere."

"Does he know I'm coming?"

"I didn't know how to tell him." Greg sounded apologetic.

John nodded and squared his shoulders. "Well... it's now or never."

Greg stepped aside and after a moment of hesitation, John pushed through the door and into the hospital room beyond. The room was pristine with wood floors and cupboards lining the walls. A hospital bed was parallel to a line of windows with a view of the parking lot. A TV on the wall was dark.

Sherlock looked like a child in the hospital bed. His black curls stuck out in all direction and his face was wan and pale. He'd lost at least ten pounds since John had last been with him - ten pounds he couldn't afford to lose. At that moment, Sherlock had his head turned, staring out the window, a haunted look in his clear blue eyes.

At the sound of footsteps, Sherlock spoke. "I thought I said I didn't want to talk, Greg."

John closed his eyes. Sherlock's voice was like a soothing balm on his heart, healing the loneliness of the past year. His chest ached with the desire to hold Sherlock and kiss him. But he held back, instead, and cleared his throat. "... Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock's head whipped around, eyes wide, his mouth forming an "o" of surprise. He stared at John for one heartbeat, then that beautiful face crumpled inward as he dissolved into choked sobs. His hands flew up to cover his mouth, teeth biting into flesh to contain the sounds escaping him.

Terrified, John rushed to his side. "Sherlock... please... don't cry. Pleas e don't." He reached out to touch Sherlock, but his hand was batted away.

"How?" Sherlock sobbed. "How can you stand there and say 'hi' like you didn't l-leave me? You left me, John! I was alone and... you left me!"

John reeled back, dread filling his stomach. "I... know. It was the biggest mistake of my life."

"I don't believe you." Sherlock spat, tears still flowing. "I lost you...and then I lost everything and I couldn't even get my own death right."

John's eyes filled with tears. "I never meant for you to... I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry can't erase this, John. My heart is shattered." Sherlock's voice grew stronger and he swiped at his eyes. "I feel so lost and I just want to be... gone. I don't want to exist anymore."

John wanted to crawl beside Sherlock and hold him. He wanted to tell him how important he was, how needed. But instead, he pulled a chair to the side of the hospital bed and sat down. Rummaging in his messenger bag, he pulled out a well-thumbed notebook. Sherlock flinched when John laid it across his lap and John tried not to react, though a sharp lance of pain pierced his heart every time Sherlock reacted to him.

"I wrote you." John said softly. "While I was gone, I wrote you."

"I didn't get any letters." Sherlock, his tears drying, but his eyes still filled with a mixture of hurt and anger.

"I didn't send them. I was scared." John stared at his hands. "I don't deserve forgiveness, Sherlock. I get that. I was a selfish idiot and I don't deserve you."

Sherlock stared stonily at John and his fingers closed around the notebook. He held it to his chest, but didn't open it to see the contents.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness because I know I haven't earned it. But I would like to ask you to read those letters. Please?"

"Why should I?"

"Because... I don't know, actually. Maybe you shouldn't. I'll take them back, if you don't want to read them."

John held out his hands, but Sherlock pulled the notebook tighter to his chest. "No."

John nodded, biting his lip. "Okay. Good."

"Are you leaving?"

"Do you want me to?"

Sherlock contemplated the question. "I'm tired."

John nodded. "I'll go and let you sleep, then?"

"No."

"Oh. Well... shall I just sit here, then?"

Another long pause while Sherlock mulled the question. Dark circles made him look like he had two black eyes. Finally, he nodded.

"Then I will. I'll stay right here."

Sherlock relaxed against the pillows, still holding the notebook of letters. After a few minutes, his eyes drifted closed and his breathing steadied and grew deeper. John, utterly exhausted from the flight and the confrontation, leaned back in his chair and let his own eyes close.

***

John woke with a start, his limbs stiff and sore from sleeping in a chair. It was dark outside and the only light came from a light above Sherlock's bed. Sherlock sat upright, paging through the notebook of letters. He gave a small start when John cleared his throat, his eyes flying to meet John's.

"Sorry...." John croaked. "Guess I fell asleep, too."

Sherlock shrugged. His mouth was set in a thin, straight line and his eyes still held a haunted expression.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Do you need a nurse?" John struggled, feeling out of practice at talking with Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, returning his eyes to the notebook. "I'm sorry about your mom."

"Thanks. I... don't know how I feel about it yet."

"Why?" Sherlock looked genuinely curious.

"She said some pretty awful things to me, right before we... moved away." John said carefully. "And then watching her get sicker and sicker... that was hard. I don't know how to feel about her."

"Was she the reason....?" Sherlock trailed off, his cheeks growing pink.

"Yeah, she was, mostly."

Sherlock nodded. "She didn't like me."

"She didn't like me, either. Did you read them all?" John nodded to the notebook.

"I did."

"And?"

"And nothing. I read them."

"Oh." John's shoulders fell. "Okay."

"Did you think you'd hand me the letters and I'd read them and suddenly everything would be magically better?"

"Can't blame me for trying?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I guess not."

John extended his hand, palm up, towards Sherlock. "Where do we go from here?"

Sherlock stared at the hand; his fingers twitched, but did not move to take it. "I don't know. I don't trust you anymore."

John flinched as though someone had hit him.

"How do I know you won't leave me the next time things get hard, John? I don't think I could survive that again. I don't think I'd want to."

"Do you still love me?" John whispered, dread filling his chest.

"That's not enough! Don't you get it?"

"What can I do?"

Sherlock stared hopelessly at John. "I don't know."

John buried his face in his hands. "I fucked everything up so badly."

"You did."

"Can I at least try? To prove that I'm not leaving this time?"

This time the silence stretched longer. Sherlock traced circles over the notepad of letters with his fingers as he thought. Finally, he twitched his head in a quick nod. "Okay."

John let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Sherlock met John's eyes with a steely look. "Don't think this is going to be easy, John."

"I wouldn't expect it to be."

"I think I'd like to be alone for awhile."

John shot to his feet. "Sure. That's fine... I'll just... I'll wait outside? If you need me...."

"Why would I need you?"

John laughed shakily. "I honestly don't know."

"I'll let you know if I need you."

John nodded and hurried from the room, bumping into a nervous Greg who was hovering outside the door.

"What happened?" Greg asked.

"I don't really know." John felt shaky. "But I've got my work cut out for me."

the two men settled into uncomfortable waiting room chairs and prepared to face the long night together.


	12. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John embark down the path towards healing.

The next few days were marked with flurries of arguments and discussions with doctors. Rehab was mentioned, but Sherlock quickly vetoed it and John stepped up to support him. Medication, too, was refused, Sherlock insisting it would cloud his mind and drive him mad. Finally they agreed that Sherlock would begin counseling sessions after he left the hospital. After that, the wheels moved quickly and Sherlock was cleared for release. His wrists were still covered in gauze and John thought he looked like a lost boy. The morning of his release, John showed up at the hospital with a fresh change of clothing.

"I thought Greg was picking me up?" Sherlock asked, taking the clothing and disappearing into the bathroom to change out of his hospital gown.

"He was. I asked him to let me come. Is that all right?" John answered to the closed bathroom door.

Voice muffled, but still audible, Sherlock replied. "It makes no difference, really."

John sighed, trying not to let Sherlock's flippant attitude get to him. They'd danced around each other since John returned, poking and prodding with words, but never pushing too hard. When John wasn't at the hospital, he'd spent his time making arrangements. A plan had formed in his mind after Sherlock agreed to give him a chance. Today, he would reveal the first part of his plan and he was, admittedly, nervous.

Emerging from the bathroom in jeans and a faded t-shirt, Sherlock looked almost normal, despite his pale skin and bandaged wrists. He ruffled his hair with his hand and stood awkwardly in front of John.

"Ready to go?" John asked, picking up the small bag of Sherlock's things.

"More than ready."

After the proper forms were signed, Sherlock and John left the hospital building and John led them to a blue Chevy Cavalier with a red stripe around the outside.

"Whose is this?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Mine." John unlocked the car and stowed Sherlock's bag in the back. "I got a little money after mom died. That's why she sold the house - so she could leave Harry and me with something. I thought it would be useful to have a car, so I bought this one."

"Hmmm." Sherlock went around to the passenger side and climbed in.

"Is that a good 'hmmm'?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Good, mostly? It's nice not to have to take the bus."

They drove in silence, punctuated only by an occasional comment from John about the nice weather. As they neared their old neighborhood, Sherlock straightened in his seat.

"This isn't the right way, John. You turned left back there when you should have gone right."

"It's okay, Sherlock. I've got something to show you."

"I'd really just like to go to Greg's place, if you don't mind."

"Please? It won't take very long and then I'll take you wherever you want to go."

Sighing in annoyance, Sherlock shrugged again. "Fine. Whatever."

A few more turns and John pulled up to a small brick bungalow accented in touches of pale gold set back from the street and framed in Jacaranda trees. Cement steps led up to a porch with a pair of pine rocking chairs.

"Who lives here?" Sherlock asked, peering curiously out the car window.

"Let's go and see, shall we?" John climbed out of the car and went around to the passenger door, holding it open.

Wrinkling his forehead in consternation, Sherlock unfolded his long limbs and followed John up the stone walk. As they drew up to the dark green front door, John fished a key out of his pocket and swiftly unlocked and opened the door into a foyer that opened into a small living room to the left. The front windows were tall and let in plenty of sunlight, which highlighted the maple-colored wood floor. A kitchen could be glimpsed straight ahead and stairs to the right led to a second floor. The interior was decorated casually in earth tones and cozy furniture.

Sherlock walked inside a few paces ahead of John. He took everything in with a glance around, then turned back to John. "I don't understand. Why are we here?"

Steeling himself, John spread his arms. "This is my new house. Our new house, if you'll accept my offer."

Sherlock's face dropped. "John... I... thought we agreed to move slowly?"

"I am, I promise. Hear me out?" John rummaged in his pocket and withdrew another key, holding it out to Sherlock. "For one thing, you're free to come and go as you like. As you probably noticed, this house isn't very far from Greg's or any of our usual hang-outs."

Sherlock took the key and fingered it hesitantly.

"Like I said before, mom left me some money. So this house and the car is paid for. If you want a vehicle of your own, we can figure that out, too. No, don't interrupt, please?" John held up a finger as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. "Let's go upstairs, I want to show you something."

On the second floor, John led Sherlock to a door at the end of the hallway. Beyond the door was an open room dominated by a large window seat and a window overlooking the back yard, which was bordered with a couple of large Coral trees and some decorative shrubs. A simple queen bed with white linen sat against one wall while the other wall had a closet, dresser, and a small desk. Sunlight shone from the window, filling the room with warm light. A door near the bed appeared to lead into a bathroom.

"Is this your room?" Sherlock whispered, hesitating at the doorway.

"Nah, mine's the smaller one at the other end of the hall." John smiled. "This is your room, if you'd like it."

Sherlock turned confused eyes to John. "I...don't understand."

"I know you need time and space of your own to heal and I also know I need to earn back your trust. I thought we could work on all of that together, here."

"This is my room... just mine?"

"Yup. If you don't feel safe, we can put a lock on your door."

Sherlock blushed. "I hardly think that's necessary."

"It's not, but I want to make this a safe space for you."

"And you'll stay...down the hall?"

"Right down at the end. There if you need me." John leaned out into the hall and gestured to his room. "There's one more room and a shared bathroom on this floor. I thought we could turn the spare room into whatever you wanted. Maybe it could be a place for you to work on your films?"

Sherlock studied John carefully. "I haven't worked on anything since... well, for awhile."

"I know."

"And I got kicked out of school."

"I know that, too. Thought we might work on fixing that, if you wanted. I'm going to try to go back, too."

Sherlock looked away, biting his lip. "I don't know what I want to do."

"That's fine, too."

Squinting his eyes, Sherlock turned back to John. "Why are you being like this? All...agreeable?"

John let out a burst of laughter. "What, I was such a miserable bastard before?"

Sherlock bit back a smile. "Only sometimes."

"Yeah, you're probably right." John shrugged. "I'm trying, Sherlock. I am trying to show you that I love you and I'm here to stay. Whatever you need, I'm here to make sure it happens."

They studied each other for a long moment. Sherlock looked at John with new eyes, as though he had never seen him before. Finally, he swallowed and lifted his chin. "I think..." he said softly. "...I would like to stay here."

"Yeah?" John broke out into a grin. "Really?"

"On a trial basis for now." Sherlock warned. "To see if it works."

"Of course, of course." John nodded. "That's terrific!"

He moved to hug Sherlock, but Sherlock flinched away and John dropped his arms. "Er... sorry. I just got carried away."

Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Greg brought over your things - I've got them downstairs. Shall I bring them up?"

"Sure, that'd be nice."

John left to traipse down the stairs and bring up the boxes of Sherlock's meager possessions.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, too quiet for John to hear.

***

Being patient with Sherlock Holmes turned out to be a greater challenge than John expected. He had to learn to swallow the sarcastic comments that came to his lips when Sherlock fell into his frequent black moods, slumping in a chair and staring at nothing for hours. Or when he would answer all of John's questions with grunts and shrugs. John endeavored to strike a balance between giving Sherlock space and being there to care for him.

Therapy sessions began soon after they moved in together. John dutifully drove Sherlock to weekly sessions at a small treatment center nearby, then headed to his early evening shift at the diner; Greg or Molly pitched in to help by collecting Sherlock from his session and taking him home. John's old manager at the diner had eagerly accepted him back, having never found anyone as reliable to replace John. He worked part-time, for now, to supplement the money from the sale of his old house and the small inheritance from his mother. John also scheduled appointments for the both of them to meet with someone at the college to discuss re-enrollment, though Sherlock balked when John brought up the subject.

"I don't get it." John said one night, stir-frying strips of chicken to go with some vegetables. "Don't you want to finish? You and I both were doing really well."

"What's the point of it?" Sherlock, slumped at the kitchen table, glared at the empty plate in front of him. "I'm not going to do anything with it."

"Why _not_? You've got amazing talent! Look at the film we made for the competition! It won! You could really go far and going to school for it won't hurt your chances."

"Can we just drop it?"

"No, we can't." John's patience broke. "I just don't understand why you would want to throw away so much talent just because you've hit a rough patch in life."

Sherlock's face grew red. "Oh, so it's okay for you to throw away an entire relationship, but I just have to keep plugging along, no matter what?"

"That's not fair, Sherlock. That was... different."

"I feel like I've lost a part of myself, John." Sherlock hovered near tears. "That creative spark? It's gone. I don't feel it here anymore."

John watched helplessly as Sherlock leaned forward, head in his hands. He wanted to go and wrap his arms around him, rest his head on those curls, and tell him it would be all right. But they still danced around each other, not touching, occasionally flinching away from any perceived closeness.

John kept the appointments, but dropped the subject for now. The days stacked up, filled with work, therapy sessions, and quiet evenings spent reading or watching TV. They didn't go out much, though Greg and Molly invited them regularly. Some days John thought Sherlock was getting better. There was a looser air around him and he smiled more. He still didn't volunteer information quickly, but he listened to John prattle on and seemed genuinely interested. Then there were darker days, when Sherlock wouldn't get out of bed. Or he'd drift listlessly through the house, not focusing. On these days, his brain seemed cloudy and far away. John knew to guide him to his chair in the living room and leave him with a cup of tea, waiting for the fog of sadness to pass.

One evening, John finally couldn't take the quiet anymore. He shut his book and stretched. "Right. We're going to the movies tonight."

Sherlock, lost in thought, looked up. "What?"

"I am going to go crazy if we don't shake things up a bit around here, Sherlock. I want to go to the movies. Please?"

"I don't know...." Sherlock looked worried, almost afraid.

John bounced up and crossed over to Sherlock's chair, kneeling down and ignoring the way Sherlock shrunk away from him at first. "It'll be fun! We'll see an action movie... what about _Top Gun_? That one looked good!"

John hesitantly placed a hand gently on Sherlock's knee, which caused Sherlock to jump a little, but relax when John didn't do anything more than that. "Please? Could we at least try?"

Chewing his lip, Sherlock contemplated. "I guess it might be nice to go out...."

"Fantastic!" John jumped to his feet. "C'mon, we can walk to the theater from here! It's a nice night and we'll get there just in time for the last showing!"

The theater, lit up and bustling with people, made Sherlock hesitate for a moment outside. He chewed his lip and rubbed the scars at his wrist unconsciously.

"It'll be okay." John said softly. Taking a chance, he caught Sherlock's hand in his and brought the scarred wrist to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over it. "If you don't like it, we can leave."

Sherlock stiffened, but didn't pull his wrist back. His eyes watched John's lips brush over the red lines on his wrist. A shiver went through him and he closed his eyes. "I... I can do this."

"You sure?"

Sherlock nodded shyly, then turned his hand to grab John's, lacing their fingers together. "I'm sure. Let's go in?"

Bumping shoulders, they headed to the box office to get their tickets.

***

"Sherlock?" John, home from a shift at the diner, let himself into a seemingly empty house. "I'm home!"

No answer came, so John tried calling again. Finally a muffled "Up here!" came back to him.

Ascending the stairs, John followed the voice to the spare room. Pushing open the door, he found Sherlock standing in front of a formerly blank wall now covered in photographs.

"What's going on in here?"

Sherlock half-turned and smiled at him. "A project. One I didn't finish."

As he drew closer to the wall, John saw the photos were of Sherlock and John, together. From before their break up. Candid snaps from the diner. Their official photo the night they won the competition. A slightly blurry shot of a grinning Sherlock, hair mussed and chest bare, wrapped in the blankets of John's bed. John traced a finger over that one, smiling.

"What's the project?"

"Just an idea I had... I might need your help, though."

"Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "If I'm going to turn our story into a movie, I'm going to need a good writer."

A lump of emotion caught in John's throat and he blinked back tears. "Our...story?"

Sherlock aimed a crooked grin at John. "Sure. People love a romance, don't they?"

Sherlock closed the space between them and allowed John to lean against him, Sherlock wrapping his arm around John's waist. They stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes, appreciating the photos.

"I've got some blank notebooks in my room." John said. "Want one so you can write down some of your thoughts about this?"

"That'd be a good idea."

"I'll dust off my typewriter, too. Probably have to dust off my creativity as well."

"If nothing else, it will be good practice."

John nuzzled his head in the crook of Sherlock's arm. After over a year of yearning to touch him again, John felt like a man dying of thirst. He wanted to lap up every inch of Sherlock's skin, drink him down, drown in him.

As if realizing John's struggle, Sherlock dropped his arm and stepped back. Lifting his chin and smiling shakily, he indicated the door. "Dinner? Want me to help?"

Taking a few breaths to steady himself, John nodded. _Baby steps._ "Yeah, that'd be great! I thawed some pork chops. Want to assemble the salad?"

Just like that, they took a step closer to each other and life re-shaped itself once more, adding another facet to their time together.

***

John grew accustomed to not seeing Sherlock for most of the day. Sherlock spent hours in the spare room, which day-by-day gained new furniture and equipment. He frantically scribbled notes and thoughts in a blank notepad, added photos to his wall, and sketched out sample storyboards. At night, Sherlock would pass John his notes over dinner and John began staying up late at night, tapping out a rough draft of the script. Once opened, the well of their creativity swelled and overflowed, becoming an unstoppable force. The side benefit was that it eased their awkwardness around each other. Sherlock no longer jumped or flinched when John drew close and John no longer felt his patience thin.

Sherlock's therapist saw a marked difference as well and cautiously spoke of a turning point. Sherlock even agreed to go to the meeting about re-enrolling in school. John felt a heavy weight of guilt lift from his shoulders after that, replaced with the buoyancy of hope.

The smallness of their life grew larger as Sherlock grew more comfortable going out with friends. They had dinner with Greg and Molly once a week, Sally occasionally joining them. On one of these dinners, Sherlock and Sally sat outside the apartment and talked for over an hour. After that, they seemed to share an understanding and a certain ease with each other. During another dinner, Molly broke the happy news of her engagement with Greg, flashing a modest diamond ring to their group. Sherlock snaked his hand under the table and squeezed John's hand in a silent message. _Maybe one day that will be us._ It seemed to say.

Life was, by no means, perfect. Their past hurts and digressions would occasionally rear their heads in unthinking words that cut them to the quick. Little slights would turn into great, roaring arguments and slamming doors. But even then, John felt a stability in their life together, a strong foundation that would not break. The fights dissolved into long talks, quiet apologies, and - most important of all - a willingness to forgive.

The last stumbling block to being completely comfortable together was their separate living quarters. Sherlock still retreated to his bedroom every night, shutting the door until morning. Though he allowed John to touch him more often and be near him, he didn't initiate anything more intimate than a soft peck on the cheek. Though their days filled with happy togetherness, John grew lonely at night, his bed seeming too big and empty. He imagined the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands, burning hot with desire for him, and he often fell asleep frustrated and unsatisfied.

It was the night after Sherlock's meeting at the college, near the end of summer, that Sherlock finally came to John. They both celebrated after the meeting where Sherlock learned he would be allowed to re-enroll and start classes in the fall. John, too, would resume classes then as well, with both of them finishing up by the end of the year. Sherlock had practically walked on air after the meeting and they'd enjoyed an intimate meal at Angelo's afterwards, Sherlock talking and laughing more than he had in a year. After they got back home, John revealed his good news: the first draft of the script was finished. Sherlock whooped and wrapped John in a hug, pressing an all-too-brief kiss to his mouth. Then his face flushed and he let go, prattling on about editing and rewrites as John stood, face aglow, watching the man he loved come back to him.

Later that night, the house quiet and dark, John lay in bed trying to get comfortable. The door to his room cracked open, letting in a beam of moonlight that shimmered across the floor. Sherlock, clad only in pajama bottoms, peeked in.

"John?"

"Yeah, something wrong?" John sat up halfway, squinting.

Silence for a beat, then, "Can I sleep in here tonight?"

John's breath caught in his throat and he had to swallow before he could answer. "Yeah, of course you can. C'mon."

He patted the space beside him and Sherlock crawled under the blankets, snuggling himself up against John's body. John carded his fingers through his messy curls and rested his other hand lightly on Sherlock's hips.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

Sherlock wriggled around to face John, reaching out to cup his face with his hand.

"Oh, Sherlock." John's emotions threatened to overwhelm him. "I love you, too. More than I can possibly ever tell you."

"I know." Sherlock said, tracing over the lines of John's face with his fingers. "You've shown me."

Their lips met in a slightly desperate, open-mouthed kiss. Sherlock twined his legs in between John's and pressed his body closer as he left a trail of kisses over John's jawline and down his neck, before resting his head in the crook of John's shoulders.

"Is it okay if we just... sleep tonight?" Sherlock whispered. "I want to be with you, but it doesn't feel right tonight. Now I just want to hold you and be with you."

John pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's mop of curls. "That's perfectly fine. We don't have to do anything quickly... we have so many days ahead."

"How many days?" A shy smile stole over Sherlock's face.

"All of them."

Twining his hand in Sherlock's, John snuggled in closer and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep comfortably, his mind at peace.

***

** Epilogue - 25 Years Later: Written in the Stars **

"You almost ready? We've got to leave in ten minutes to beat the traffic."

John Watson adjusted the bow tie of his tux and made sure his blue pocket square wasn't crooked. Running a hand over his newly grown beard - acquired during an epic session of script-writing and then kept because it drove Sherlock wild - he poked his head into the bathroom where Sherlock was nervously trying to tame his curls.

"Fighting a losing battle, love." He chuckled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and resting his head on his tuxedo-clad back.

Sherlock paused, resting his hand over John's clasped hands and smiled at him in the mirror. "Just trying to look my best. It's an important night, you know!"

Standing on his toes, John dropped a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and affectionately smoothed his hair. Though shot through with grey, the curls still ran thick and wild. "Did you let Greg and Molly know the restaurant we're meeting at afterwards?"

"I called Greg earlier and let him know. He and Molly were still trying to find a babysitter for Ava and Henry. Sally might stop by, too."

"With Maura?"

"Maybe. Depends on Maura's schedule - she's on call at the hospital tonight."

"It'll be a celebration, then!"

"Maybe." Sherlock pulled a face. "We aren't guaranteed to win, you know."

Leaning against the bathroom counter and watching Sherlock finish getting ready, John smiled softly. "I'm already a winner. And we've got more than just a silly award to celebrate, you know."

He looked pointedly at the simple black band set with a small black diamond on Sherlock's ring finger; the matching one rested comfortably on his own ring finger. Sherlock grinned boyishly at him, pink suffusing his cheeks, and waggled his ring-clad hand at him.

"Just think, Mr. Watson... only a month!"

John's eyes sparkled with mirth as he took Sherlock's hands and kissed his fingertips. "I'm counting the days. Did Mycroft get his invitation?"

Sherlock blanched. "I don't know why we had to invite him."

"Because he's your _brother_. And he's trying!"

"Well, you're right about the _trying_ part...."

"Hush." John swatted playfully at Sherlock's shoulder. "He's really making an effort now that your parents aren't around to keep him under their thumb. You have to give him credit."

"I suppose." Sherlock pouted. "What about Harry? Did she say she'd come to the wedding?"

"Yep." John nodded. "She's bringing Claire and baby Violet, too! I think they've managed to work out their problems finally."

"If she stays out of the bottle long enough." Sherlock observed caustically.

John sighed. "Yeah... big if. But she seems really determined this time. There's a lot more at stake to lose."

"It's going to be one big family gathering, isn't it?" Sherlock fiddled with his cufflinks.

"It is. It'll be the party to end all parties. And it should be - it's about damn time you made an honest man out of me."

Chuckling, Sherlock turned and spread his arms wide. His well-fitted dark blue tuxedo caused his blue eyes to stand out. Though he'd combed back his curls, one had already escaped and flopped over his forehead. "Well, how do I look?"

John's eyes darkened as he looked Sherlock up and down. Pushing away from the bathroom counter, he stepped close to Sherlock and ran his hands down his tuxedo jacket, gathering the lapels in his hands and pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. His beard rubbed against Sherlock's cheek, eliciting a gasp as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and deepened the kiss.

"You look...." John murmured, slipping his hands under the tuxedo jacket and rubbing them up Sherlock's back. "Like I should undress you right now and take you to bed."

He moved to Sherlock's neck, nipping and licking it, and his hands moved to cup Sherlock's ass.

"I thought we were running late!" Sherlock said breathlessly while steadying himself on the bathroom counter.

"They can wait for us." John growled, all thoughts of the time out of his head. Only one thought pulsed through his mind and that was how much Sherlock still turned him on after all these years. "I want to give you something for luck."

Moving his hands to Sherlock's zipper, he quickly divested him of his pants and pushed down his black boxer briefs. Sherlock's cock sprang to attention, the tip rosy and straining. John pushed Sherlock back, helping him brace himself on the bathroom counter, then bent to grip the base of his cock. He leaned down and flicked his tongue over the slit, then closed his lips swirled his tongue slowly around the tip, eliciting a moan from Sherlock. John stroked his hand rhythmically and, with his other hand, massaged Sherlock's balls. Licking his way down the entire length of Sherlock's cock, John pressed his face into Sherlock's groin and inhaled the clean, musky scent of him. He rubbed his beard softly against Sherlock's bare skin and was rewarded with a sharp cry and fingers buried tightly in his hair.

Kneeling on the floor, John made eye contact with Sherlock, whose gaze was dark with lust. John gently kissed up the length of Sherlock's shaft, his hands moving to rub up and down Sherlock's thighs. Reaching the tip again, John lowered his eyelashes and blew a gentle breath onto the head of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock panted and thrusted his hips towards John, who took that as a sign and laved his tongue over the tip before wrapping his mouth over the length of Sherlock's rigid dick, bobbing his head in time to Sherlock's small thrusts. He braced one hand on Sherlock's thigh while the other tickled and massaged the balls, drawing breathy whimpers from Sherlock's throat. Humming deep in his throat, John picked up the pace, his own cock growing stiff in his pants.

"Oh, God!" Sherlock groaned, gripping the edge of the counter with one hand while the other stayed clenched in John's hair. His hips thrust faster and John felt Sherlock's cock swell and he let more of the length slide into his mouth, pushing Sherlock over the edge. Crying out wordlessly, Sherlock let wave after wave of pleasure wash over him, John eagerly drinking down the streams of warm come hitting the back of his throat.

John let Sherlock's cock slip from his mouth and he rested his forehead on his leg, softly kissing the smooth skin of his inner thigh. Sherlock half-panted and half-laughed, easing his fingers from John's hair and stroking the back of his head softly.

"Now we're really going to be late." He whispered.

They both giggled boyishly and John stood and helped Sherlock off the counter. Sherlock pressed his lips roughly to John's, his fingers scraping through his beard. His free hand went to rest on the bulge in John's pants.

"The time, Sherlock." John pulled back, but Sherlock pressed forward.

"I don't give a fuck about the time." Sherlock growled, unzipping John's pants and slipping inside to brush the tip of his straining cock. "I just want to give as good as I get."

Laughing, John angled them towards the bed and gently pushed Sherlock in that direction. "Maybe we can miss the first few awards."

Tumbling to the mattress, Sherlock pulled John down on top of him and continued his quest to return John's favor.

***

"And the Oscar goes to... _Written in the Stars_ , Sherlock Holmes, director!"

The evening had already been a blur. They'd arrived over thirty minutes late to the red carpet, both completely satisfied and relaxed, though perhaps a little more disheveled than before. Sherlock and John fielded a few interviews, but gratefully allowed themselves to be whisked inside and seated quickly. _Written in the Stars_ easily picked up every award it was nominated for, including John's "Best Original Screenplay" award, which he'd nervously dedicated to Sherlock before the music swelled and played him off the stage. Now, at the high point of the ceremony, Sherlock beamed as his film was announced for "Best Picture". Grabbing John's hand, he dragged his fiancé to the stage, along with the rest of the cast of the film. Shaking hands clutched at the golden statuette - a twin to the one he'd accepted for "Best Director" - and Sherlock leaned into the microphone.

"Over twenty-five years ago, I was a lonely, awkward young man working in a movie theater and dreaming about bringing my own stories to life. I would not have made it this far if not for the beautiful man I saw dancing to _Footloose_ in an empty theater auditorium. He took my heart in his hands and taught me to look to the stars."

Sherlock paused, looking to John's beaming face, a proud light glinting in his eyes.

"John Watson, love of my life, you are my North Star. You keep me pointed in the right direction. This award, much like my heart and my life, is yours."

Tugging John's hand, Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to his lips. Dimly, he heard the applause swell and, breaking the kiss, stared in amazement at the audience, which had collectively risen to their feet in a standing ovation. Sherlock could see tears streaming down the faces of some of his peers and his own happy tears spilled over as he felt John clap him on the back, laughing delightedly.

Later that evening, surrounded by his closest friends, Sherlock and John sat in their favorite restaurant, unable to tear their gaze away from each other for long. Sherlock rubbed his hand lightly over the top of John's, which rested on Sherlock's knee. He picked up a flute of champagne and lifted it high.

"To an amazing twenty-five years." He said, beaming as his friends lifted their own glasses.

John raised his glass, as well, and proclaimed, "And here's to the next twenty-five to come."

Clinking glasses and sipping the fizzy champagne, Sherlock reflected on how lucky he was...and how much fun the rest of his life would be walking side by side with John Watson, aiming for the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who've read and enjoyed _Sunday Matinee_! I have truly loved writing this story and I hope you all enjoyed the journey! If you're willing, please leave a kudo, a comment letting me know you liked it, or recommend the story to a friend! And if you would like to read more of my work, please check out my other WIPs, including [Entre Nous - Between Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572066), a BalletLock/RugbyJohn AU I just started! You can also find me over on Tumblr at [Cleverwholigan](http://cleverwholigan.tumblr.com) and on Twitter [@traci_d_haley](http://www.twitter.com/traci_d_haley). Thank you, again! :)


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